


Cabin Fever

by Dangerousnotbroken



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dcbb 2017, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Stranded, Vacation, accidental roommates, switch!cas, switch!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 03:53:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12786381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangerousnotbroken/pseuds/Dangerousnotbroken
Summary: Due to a romantic-comedy level  booking blunder, grumpy stress-case Dean and reclusive writer Castiel end up shuttled off to the same remote cabin for two weeks, and nobody seems to care that neither of them wants to be there. But since they’re stuck in the same cabin for the duration of their vacation, they might as well play nice and make the best of it right?Wrong.Dean’s so stressed out he can’t sit still, Cas can’t boil water without setting the place on fire, and they’re so on each other’s nerves it’ll be a miracle if either of them survives until their rides home arrive.At least the tension is just social, and not sexual, right? Right?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Are you prepared for absurd whimsy and Dean Winchester's ridiculous inner monologue and gorgeous art by delicious-irony?
> 
> Good! Glad to hear it!
> 
> I had so much fun writing this fic. The most fun. When I told [KreweofImp](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kreweofimp) about the idea I had she told me I had NO OPTION but to call it Cabin Fever, and as usual she was right. I love her so many and she beta read this fic for me, although she says it didn't really need much editing because she's nice to me like that.
> 
> [deliciousirony](http://archiveofourown.org/users/deliciousirony) is a fantastic artist and has lots more fanart on ao3, and you should go check it all out because she makes the prettiest things. She was great to work with on this DCBB collaboration. I can't stress enough how much I enjoy the art she made for my story!!! Please give her lots of love <3

The phone rings.  It’s a Taylor Swift song, because Sam changed it six fucking months ago and Dean’s yet to bother changing it back. He totally knows how. He just hasn’t gotten around to it. He lets it ring, not because he wants to listen to _Shake it Off_ but because the fact that Taylor Swift is playing means that Sam is calling, and if Sam is calling then he’s pushing that same damn agenda again.

Dean’s not _avoiding reality._ He isn’t _repressing his emotions._ He’s certainly not fucking _pouring himself into his work so he’s too preoccupied to acknowledge his depression._ He’s just busy, and stressed, and focused on his priorities. In reality, he’s at the tail end of a massive restoration, getting really damn close to the deadline the owner set when he brought it to Bobby. The car was in terrible shape, basically just a gutted body with a poorly maintained engine, but by the time he’s finished with it, this car is going to look better than showroom. The owner wants his newly restored convertible done in time to take it to all the Show-n-Shines throughout the summer season, so it means that Dean saw almost none of the spring, and probably won’t see much of summer until July hits. And, okay, he probably works more hours than is strictly necessary because he is a perfectionist and this car isn’t rolling out of Singer Automotive in anything less than pristine condition. It could technically be argued that he takes on some very basic tasks that he could easily have delegated to someone like Garth, and if he didn’t do those things he’d likely be able to go home when everyone else leaves instead of an hour or two later every day. And Dean will tell anyone who asks that this is because when the owner brought it in, he asked for Dean specifically. It is entirely about his reputation.

Sam has a different theory on Dean’s work/life balance. Sam thinks Dean is still all torn up about his breakup with Lisa, and that his dedication to the job is an excuse to lose himself in something other than his feelings, and that it’s really a cry for help.

Dean thinks Sam needs to stop psychoanalyzing him, or he’s going to get punched in the nose. He broke up with Lisa like six months ago. Or she broke up with him. Whatever. Semantics. Point is that the breakup is practically ancient history at this point in time. Dean’s not _still processing_ , and Sam can cram it with walnuts. He’s just fucking busy. Definitely too busy to listen to more touchy-feely bullshit from Sam on how he needs to take better care of himself and he’s too stressed and he needs to take some time out and just relax for a while. He doesn’t need a massage. He doesn’t need to have a heart-to-heart with his kid brother. He doesn’t need to talk about his feelings, he just needs to do his fucking job and get on with his life.

Taylor Swift sings out again, which is new ‘cause Sam usually just calls him once and leaves a nagging voicemail, then sends a bunch of rapid-fire text messages until Dean finally replies. The change in tactics is interesting enough for Dean to answer, but only because he’s curious. Not because there’s any chance at all of Sam being right in his analysis of the situation. Just curiosity.

“What’s up, Sammy?” Dean answers, more than a little tersely.

“Screening my calls now, jerk?”

“I was busy,” Dean lies.

“You’re always busy,” Sam observes. “Almost like you’re doing it on purpose.”

“You goin’ somewhere with this?”

“I haven’t seen you in weeks. Come on, Dean, can’t you take one evening off?” he pleads. Dean can practically see the sad puppy face he’d be making.

“When this restoration’s over, Sammy,” Dean assures him. “I’ll take some time off when this restoration’s over.”

He’s not sure he blames Sam for the skepticism he throws back. Dean wouldn’t believe himself either.

~*~

He finishes the work with about a day and a half to spare, and spends the better part of an afternoon just staring at the car, looking for any tiny imperfection that will require attention before delivery. He finds nothing.

There is much praise when he hands the keys back over to the proud owner. Dean’s work is always good, so that’s not really a surprise, but it does make the extra hours spent in the shop feel that much more rewarding. But then the car drives off, and he’s got no big project to deal with which means he’s got no excuse not to leave at five like everyone else does.

It’s weird driving home with normal commuter traffic now. He’s fallen into such a routine of spending so much time at the shop, he had almost forgotten how annoying the bumper-to-bumper roads can be. Dean isn’t really in a bad mood when he gets in his car, and the drive starts out okay, but by about the fourth time he gets cut off, he’s shifted from kinda okay to full on irritated. He’s sour and muttering under his breath as he slams the door to his Baby, stomping up the stairs to his second floor apartment a little more aggressively than necessary. When he opens the door to his apartment and finds Sam sitting at his kitchen table, sad puppy-dog face plastered on, Dean surpasses irritated and goes straight for _done._

“What the hell do you want?” Dean demands, throwing open the fridge door to grab a beer. He does not look at Sam, because years as a little brother have made Sam manipulative and sneaky, and years as a big brother have made Dean incapable of resisting his stupid brother when he makes that stupid puppy-dog face.

“You’re going on a vacation,” Sam announces, like this is just a thing he can decide and Dean will do it.

“The fuck I am,” Dean replies. “Got work, Sammy. Bobby needs me. Big project on the go.”

Sam laughs. Dean still doesn’t look at him. “Yeah, about that. See, I talked to Bobby about four hours ago and he said you just made delivery on your big project and he could totally spare you for the next two weeks. Plus he mentioned you’ve put in enough overtime in the last little while that if you don’t take some time off he’ll kick your ass himself.”

“You got Bobby involved in this?” Dean snaps.

“Well yeah, ‘cause I knew you’d try to bullshit your way out of taking time off, so I made sure I knew your schedule before I booked it.  You gonna offer me one of those beers or not?”

Dean hands Sam a beer, scowling at him all the while. “Before you _booked it?_ Not only are you making me take time off of work, but you’re making me go somewhere? You didn’t think about maybe consulting me first?”

“I did consult you. Or at least I tried. You screened my calls. So I picked somewhere you would have picked.”

“Okay well we both know that’s bullshit because if you were thinking about what I wanted you wouldn’t be trying to force me to go on a fucking vacation.”

“I’m worried about you, Dean.” Sam sounds sad again, like he’s making that fucking face. It weakens Dean’s resolve which is annoying as hell.

“I don’t need your pity,” Dean snaps. “I’m fine. I’ve been fucking busy at work, and now I’m not, and I’m fine.”

“Then there’s no reason not to take some time off and go relax. You’ve earned it.” Sam is smug, like he’s already won the argument. Dean supposes he probably has.

“I’m not saying I agree to this, because fuck you, but maybe you could tell me what the hell you signed me up for. I’m still probably not fucking going though,” Dean adds almost as an afterthought.

“Oh, you’re going,” Sam informs him. “I already packed for you. You’re leaving in the morning for a cabin up on the lake. You can go fishing, read books on the dock, barbeque, go swimming, whatever. It’ll be great. Just the relaxing vacation you need right now.”

“I don’t need a vacation,” Dean replies petulantly.

“Whatever, you’re still going. I will show up here in the morning and drive you up there myself if I have to. Actually, you know what? That’s what I’m going to do. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“I hate you,” Dean grumbles, but it’s pointless. He already knows he’s spending the next two weeks in a remote lakeside cabin, and there’s nothing he can do to get out of it.

~*~

Castiel has been staring at this exact same page for the better part of the day, and he hasn’t typed a single character that he hasn’t immediately deleted in disgust. He hasn’t even gotten close to writing actual words at this point. He wonders if it counts as writing if you don’t actually write anything. Isn’t the effort as important as the result?

His publisher Gabriel probably has some choice words on that subject, which is disheartening, because Castiel himself apparently has no words at all at his disposal. Right now, he’d settle for the markedly blue language Gabriel tends to fling around when he’s inconvenienced. Hell, he’d even take Cockney rhyming slang, if it would just get words on the page.

The cursor blinks on his screen, taunting, daring Castiel to hit some keys just so he can hate what shows up on the page again.

There are many schools of thought on writer’s block. Some people will tell you that you just need to get away from it for a while. Put away whatever you’re writing, take a walk or make a cup of coffee and come back to it with fresh eyes. Some preach inane writing exercises, stream of consciousness and word association and other things that don’t really seem like they’re anything more than annoying. He’s sure there are other suggestions being flung around, but he stopped listening to any of them quite some time ago, because nothing helps. His brain either wants to write or it doesn’t and right now, it definitely does not want to write. Castiel wants to write. He’d prefer to be typing right this minute. His brain, though? It disagrees.

He answers the phone when Gabriel calls just so he has an actual excuse for all the writing he’s not getting done at the moment. If he’s on the phone, then of course he’s not writing. It’s a solid five minutes where he has something to do other than hover his fingers over the keyboard and attempt to pray words into being.

“Hello Gabriel,” he rasps, his voice rough from disuse. He also hasn’t left the house in three days, and he can’t remember if he’s spoken a single word since the last time his publisher called a full two days ago.

“How’s my brilliant-but-tortured artist today?” Gabriel coos, an obnoxiously saccharine tone dripping through the receiver.

“Working,” Castiel lies.

“Oh excellent! Then you won’t mind emailing me over what you’ve got done in the past couple days.” All the sweetness is gone, replaced with a voice so flat that Castiel can practically hear Gabriel’s eyes rolling. The sarcasm is strong with Gabriel, always has been, and normally Castiel isn’t fazed by it because he dishes it out just as well as Gabriel does. Today, it’s just plain annoying.

Castiel is quiet just long enough to confirm Gabriel’s suspicions.

“Still blocked, hey?” he asks

“Apparently,” Castiel replies sourly. It’s insanely frustrating. He knows exactly where the story is supposed to go, has the whole thing mapped out in his brain. It isn’t a matter of not knowing what has to happen next. It’s just a matter of articulating it. In all likelihood, there is a single transitional sentence standing between what he’s got written right now and where he wants to go next, but he cannot for the life of him form the words to make that transition. It’s getting physically painful staring at this same page for hours on end.

“You need a change of scenery,” Gabriel announces. “Get out of that stuffy apartment. Go somewhere with fresh air, fewer city noises. A change is as good as a rest, right?”

“Thanks for the suggestion, but I think I’ll just stay here and fight through it.” Castiel is fond of his home. He likes his things where they are. His bed is big and soft and comfortable, there’s a Thai place around the corner that makes the most amazing spring rolls, and there’s nobody around to care if he reeks of weed all day.

“Wasn’t a suggestion, Cas. I booked you a place on the lake. It’s tiny, kinda rustic, but there’s power and running water, and nobody around for miles to interrupt you. Hell, there’s barely cell service up there so I won’t even be able to bug you.”

“You’re an asshole, Gabriel,” Castiel gripes, rubbing a tired hand through his messy hair.

“I think you mean to say that I’m charming and clever, and you’re infinitely grateful to me for my continued efforts to save your ass. You’re talented, and I know you know that because people never stop telling you that, but you’ve been promising this next book for like two years now. We got deadlines. You’re doing this. Pack a bag and your laptop. I’m picking you up in the morning, and I’ll be back to grab you in two weeks.”

“Fuck,” Castiel mutters, but Gabriel’s already ended the call.

Guess he’s gonna be staring at a blank page in a remote cabin instead of in the comfort of his own home for the next two weeks. Won’t that be fun?


	2. Chapter 2

The annoying thing is that this is totally the kind of vacation Dean could see himself being excited about under different circumstances. Despite the overwhelming schedule he’s set for himself of late, Dean is a man who truly enjoys the concept of intentional laziness, of carving out time to do nothing. Not that he’s carved any of that kind of time out lately, neither in the aftermath of the breakup with Lisa or for much of the time before, but he definitely sees the appeal. So although it wasn’t his idea, and he’ll die before admitting it to Sam, Dean isn’t overly upset about where he’s going to be spending the next two weeks. It’s just the fact that he’s being forced into solitary confinement by his meddlesome little brother that’s drawing Dean’s ire.

He’s also not best pleased at the knowledge that Sam is driving him up there, dropping him off with two weeks’ worth of food and beer, and high-tailing it. Dean would prefer to have his car nearby just in case of emergency or whatever, and even if nothing at all goes wrong he still doesn’t relish the idea of being stranded in the middle of nowhere all by himself for fourteen days.

Sam will not listen to reason, of course. Dean has fought him on this hard enough that he’s decided not to leave anything to chance, so he shows up in that godawful sport compact of his with the plastic bumper and the hybrid engine. The trunk is full of cases of beer and a box of dry goods, and there are two coolers of food in the back seat. Dean barely finds room for his own duffle bag amongst all the things Sam has packed him, but hey, at least there’s ample beer.

“The guy who rents out the cabin has some fishing gear up there already that you can use, and there’s bedding and kitchen stuff in there too, so you’ll be comfortable.” Sam informs Dean as he casts a questioning glance at the provisions.

“Well that’s good. I’d hate to think you’d send me into exile somewhere I wouldn’t be _comfortable,”_ Dean snarks, climbing grudgingly into the passenger seat of Sam’s stupid car. Can’t even drive his Baby to this damn cabin. How lame is that?

“Are you going to be a total asshole the entire drive up there?” Sam asks, not even looking at Dean as he starts the car back up and pulls away from the curb.

“That depends. How long is the drive?”

“Maybe three hours?” Sam replies.

“Then probably,” Dean informs him.

“What if we stop for coffee and breakfast? Will you shut up then?”

Dean grunts. “I make no promises.”

~*~

It does not take three hours to drive to the cabin. It take four, and it pisses Dean right the fuck off because he totally could have made it in three and a quarter, even in this underpowered piece of plastic Sam dares to call a car. Baby would have done even better. She’s gorgeous on the open road. It physically pains Dean to be on a road trip and have her left at home. Sam’s going about this relaxation thing all wrong.

All surliness aside, Dean has to admit the place is idyllic. He can see the lake through the trees before the cabin itself even comes into view, bright and clear and sparking in the early afternoon sunlight. It’s a pretty perfect day, too, a cloudless sky and a light breeze to keep the heat from getting oppressive. A bit of dust kicks up around the car as Sam turns off the main road, pavement giving way to loose gravel, and from there it’s still a slow five minute drive through the trees until they reach the cabin.

It’s nowhere near as rustic as Dean was imagining. It definitely fits the definition of a cabin though, all constructed of wood and a neat little stone chimney poking out the top. There’s a sort of veranda wrapping around the front and sides, also wood, with an assortment of chairs and little tables clustered around in various places. Immediately, Dean wants to sit down in one of the shadier seats, crack a beer, and kick his boots off.

Sam might not have been entirely off base with this whole idea.

From the front of the veranda, a small set of stairs descends to the ground, meeting a footpath that winds lazily through copses of trees Dean can’t be bothered to identify and down towards the water. If he peers towards its eventual terminus, he can see a wooden dock jutting out from the shore. He will likely spend a decent amount of time over the next couple of weeks on that dock, fishing in the mornings and relaxing in the afternoons and skipping stones in the evenings. He might dive in the lake and have a swim, even. He’s fairly certain Sam rifled through his drawers thoroughly enough to pack a swimsuit, and if not, who cares. He’ll just swim in his boxers. It’s not like anyone’s around to see him.

Sam kills the engine and climbs out, immediately making for the back seat to check on the coolers. He checked the drain plugs every time they stopped along the way but somehow the idea that they might leak on his upholstery still managed to hover in his mind the entire trip. They have not, in fact, leaked, so Sam gladly hauls them out and sets them on the ground beside the car. Just in case they spontaneously start leaking mere seconds after he checks them.

Dean grabs his duffel and heads for the door of the cabin, intent on getting his stuff settled in as quickly as possible so Sam can get the mother-henning out of the way and he can get started on his court-ordered relaxation.

“Hey Sam, are there keys for this place?” he calls over his shoulder.

“Chuck said there’s a key vault at the front door, combo is 7-1-3-4,” Sam informs him, hefting a case of beer in each hand. Sure enough, there’s a vault hanging from the handle, the kind real estate agents put on houses they’re trying to sell. Dean puts in the combo and find the thing empty.

“You sure about that?” Dean calls over his shoulder. “There’s a vault here, but there’s no key.”

“Maybe he left them on the counter?” Sam suggests. _Maybe he forgot to leave the keys at all, and I can quit this bullshit before it even starts,_ Dean thinks to himself, but the handle turns smoothly in his hand and the door swings open easily. The first thing he notices is not the cozy wood detailing or how soft the sofa looks or the fact that there is a television, which he did not expect. No, the first thing Dean registers upon opening the door is that this secluded lakeside cabin is, in fact, currently occupied.

Sitting at the carved wooden table that occupies one side of the main room sits a man with hair that looks like it has never and will never be anything other than unruly, at least three days’ worth of stubble, and eyes narrowed so tightly in confusion that Dean can scarcely tell that they are blue. They are though. Definitely blue.

“Uh…hi?” Dean ventures, not really sure what else to say. Maybe this is the owner of the cabin and he’s just like, greeting them or something? The guy just stares back, blue eyes narrowed to mere slits, head tilted to the side like an inquisitive puppy dog, hands hovering over a laptop keyboard like he’s frozen in time. He just gazes at Dean, pondering, until Sam comes up behind him and breaks the spell.

“Why are you just standing in the…oh. Hi. Sorry. Are you Chuck?” Sam asks, much more cleverly than Dean has managed. “I didn’t know you were going to be here when we arrived.”

“No…” the stranger answers slowly. “I’m not Chuck. I…sorry, who are you guys, and why are you in my cabin?”

“Your cabin? Sorry, there must be some mistake,” Sam counters, incredibly diplomatically. “We rented this cabin from Chuck Shurley for the next two weeks. Well, I did. Dean here is staying in it.”

“There has definitely been a mistake then,” says the strange man, who is still hovering his hands over his keyboard like he expects the interruption to resolve itself any moment so he can get back to whatever it is he’s typing at. He regards Dean with birdlike curiosity, barely moving a muscle. “My publisher rented this cabin for me for the next two weeks, so maybe you’re supposed to be in a different cabin.”

“Pretty sure it’s this one,” Sam argues. “I’m going to call Chuck.” He steps outside, setting the beer down on the veranda, leaving Dean staring dumbstruck at the guy who is still staring back at him. Dean doesn’t want to be the first one to break eye contact. It’s like, a thing. A big thing. A pride thing. He doesn’t know. But this guy, for all his squinting, barely seems to blink. It’s kinda unnerving. So finally Dean shrugs his shoulders, breaks off the staring contest, and steps outside.

“Uh huh,” Sam is saying on the phone. “Yeah but see, I paid you upfront for the booking. He did too, huh? Okay, well. I don’t know. But like, we’re here, and he’s here. It’s kind of a big mistake.” He goes quiet for a moment, looking thoughtful as he ponders whatever Chuck is saying on the other end of the line. “Okay hang on a minute. Let me ask him.” Dean perks up, certain that Sam is about to ask him if he minds just going home and abandoning this whole idea, but instead he walks back inside to talk to the stranger with the messy hair.

“Hey, sorry dude. I’ve got Chuck on the phone.” Dean follows Sam back inside, really not sure what is happening. “He says this is all his fault and he definitely double booked us ‘cause he had his calendar on the wrong page. He offered to rebook one of us for the two weeks following the original booking…”

“That won’t work,” the guy interjects, shaking his head.

“Yeah, for us either, which I told him. So he said since we both paid up front, if you and Dean agree, he’ll give us each back half our booking fee and you guys can share the cabin for the next two weeks. There’s two bedrooms, so no one has to sleep on the couch or anything, and it seems like a not terrible way to resolve this?”

The guy tilts his head to the side again, pondering. His eyes don’t narrow this time, and he’s not looking at Dean, but Dean still feels like his very worth is being weighed and measured in the thoughtful look on his face. A whole internal dialogue plays out on the stranger’s face over the few moments it takes him to decide how to answer Sam’s question.

“I don’t see why that would be a problem. He doesn’t look like he’s going to cause me too much trouble.” And just like that, he goes back to writing, ignoring Sam and Dean like they aren’t even there. Sam puts the phone back to his ear and informs Chuck that everyone is in agreement, which pisses Dean off, because everyone is _not_ in agreement, and he knows this for a fact because nobody fucking asked him.

“Don’t I get a say in this?” he demands after Sam hangs up the phone and drops it back in his pocket.

Sam just gives him a flat stare in response. Dean can read it clearly. _I didn’t care whether you wanted to come up here in the first place. What makes you think I care whether you want to share it with a weird hot guy who has a staring problem?_

Dean might have invented the _hot_ part all on his own. It’s hard to tell with bitchface-to-English translation, really. The syntax gets muddled and some things get lost in translation and…never mind. It’s not important. The point is that Sam is abandoning him here with this guy for two weeks and he’s not even interested in Dean’s opinion on the subject.

“I hate you,” he informs Sam.

“No you don’t,” Sam reminds him. “And you’ll hate me even less when you’ve had some time to relax for the first time in months.” Sam unloads the rest of the beer onto the side of the gravel driveway and gives Dean a hard side-eye when he doesn’t immediately start shuttling it inside, so Dean jumps to it and picks up a couple of cases, taking them into the tiny kitchen and trying not to glare at his unexpected companion. It’s not his fault Dean’s trapped here with a stranger for the next two weeks. Okay well, it kind of is, because he agreed to it when Sam mentioned the idea. But it’s not his fault they got double-booked, and it’s not his fault Sam’s abandoning him like this. Doesn’t make Dean any less annoyed though.

It takes another couple of trips before all the supplies Sam brought him are shuttled inside. He kind of expects Sam to hang around a little once it’s done, but the second the last cooler is deposited on the floor, he’s heading for the door.

“You’ve got some cell reception out here, so you can call me if there’s an emergency or anything. Running out of beer doesn’t count as an emergency. I’ll be back in two weeks to pick you up. Try to chill out a bit before then.”

“Bitch,” Dean mutters under his breath.

“Bye, Jerk,” Sam replies, shutting the door tightly behind him. Dean stands in the kitchen, completely unsure what to do with himself. His still-anonymous companion sits at his little table, fingers clacking away at his keyboard, and he seems entirely oblivious to Dean’s discomfort.

That is, of course, until his gravelly voice pipes up.

“There’s still plenty of room in the fridge if you’d like to unload your coolers. I don’t recommend trying to fit all the beer in there at once though. And I’ve already got my things in the bedroom at the back right, so the left one is your by default.” He doesn’t wait for any kind of a reply, just goes back to typing. Dean’s not even sure if he stopped typing long enough to speak.

And right. Unpacking. That sounds reasonable. He swings open the fridge door and finds that, while not empty, it’s sparse enough that all his stuff should fit. His temporary roommate seems to have stocked himself up on food that requires minimal preparation, mostly processed food and things he can heat and eat. There are five pizzas in the freezer, as well as various other frozen entrees, packages of pre-made burgers and hot dogs, and instant things like boxes of macaroni and cheese in the cupboard. Okay. Not a chef then. Dean’s no Michelin-rated restauranteur himself, but he knows his way around a kitchen, so his groceries are much more raw ingredients than prepared foods. Sam has purchased him a decent supply of vegetables and meats, lots of stuff that can be thrown on the grill outside, as well as bacon, eggs, a few loaves of bread, sandwich fixings, and some pastas and jars of sauce. He won’t be eating much differently than he does at home, to be honest, with the exception of being able to grill things instead of broiling them, because he’s not allowed to have a barbeque on the balcony at his apartment. He still thinks that’s stupid. He doesn’t care that they’re considered a fire hazard. Anyone who’s likely to burn the building down with a grill on the balcony is still probably going to find a way to burn the place down with an oven fire. Dean doesn’t see why he should be punished for their stupidity.

There ends up being room for an entire case of beer in the fridge, so he lines the cans up carefully to take best advantage of the space, then unloads the few dry goods he has into one of the empty cupboards. Once he finishes unpacking he’ll probably end up making a sandwich or something, but for now, he’s got stuff to do.

The back left bedroom is unclaimed, the guy said, so Dean head back there with his probably overladen duffle bag. He’s only going to be here for two week so it doesn’t seem entirely necessary to unpack everything, but he’s still going to, if only to give him something to do.

The back left bedroom has bunk beds.

He’s spending the next two weeks sleeping in a bunk bed.

“Fuck me,” Dean mutters under his breath. Whatever. It’s a bed. It’ll do. He’ll be fine. But this clearly isn’t what Sam planned and it gets under his skin that this Chuck guy fucked up the booking and now Dean is relegated to sleeping in a bed intended for children. At least it’s long enough for him. And when he sits down on the bottom bunk it seems like it’s pretty comfortable, all things considered.

Still grumbling, Dean pulls open drawers on the wooden dresser and unpacks his things. He probably should have repacked a little more thoroughly, being that Sam was the one to put his bag together in the first place, but he was too pissed off last night to bother doing more than a cursory survey. As he pulls things out of the stiff canvas bag, he’s pleased to find that Sam paid enough attention to what he was doing that he packed most of Dean’s favourite shirts, the jeans he likes best, a couple pairs of shorts he rarely wears but will serve him well hanging out by the lake, far more underwear than he could possibly need in fourteen days and, yes, a pair of swim trunks. There’s also two pairs of cheapo flip flops in a drug store bag tucked into the bottom of the bag, so Sam was definitely paying attention, because Dean hasn’t owned flip flops in years but he will definitely need them to walk down the gravel path to the lakeshore. He’s silently praising Sam when he pulls the flip flips out of the bag, but it all falls away when he sees what else Sam has crammed in the bag—a box of condoms and a bottle of Astroglide, as well as a somewhat crumpled note.

_Just because you’re hours from civilization doesn’t mean you won’t end up meeting someone to take your mind off things for a little while. Try not to get into too much trouble._

He’s going to murder Sam.

He’s also unlikely to need to condoms. The entire drive out here, signs of civilization dwindled gradually until it felt like they were the only people in the world. There were no other driveways off the road they came down for long miles, and he imagines it’s the same in the other direction. The chances of Dean meeting some other vacationer out on this lake are pretty damn slim. Dean chucks the box of condoms in the drawer of the dresser and resolves not to think about how long ago he last got laid.

There’s also a bottle of sunscreen in the bag, SPF a fucking million, some bug spray, and a pair of cheap plastic Ray-Ban knockoff sunglasses. It seems Sam has thought of everything. Dean surveys the room, decides there’s nothing else to do in there, and heads back out to the main room.

It’s not a bad cabin, as far as cabins go. There’s a decent amount of space. It’s really more like a small house than a cabin, one that just happens to be all wood and situated on a lake. The bathroom has a proper shower and there’s obviously electricity, and Dean’s willing to bet the TV probably doesn’t have cable but it does have a DVD player, so at least there’s that. Outside, there’s enough seating space that he doesn’t think he’s going to feel too smothered by the weird guy hanging out at the table smashing away at his keyboard, and there’s probably no other people for miles around.

Maybe this doesn’t suck so bad.


	3. Chapter 3

“You know,” Dean calls over his shoulder as he stands in the kitchen making the biggest roast beef sandwich in history, “I get that we’re victims of circumstance here and this probably sucks a bunch for you, but if we’re going to be cellmates for the next couple weeks it’s probably going to be a little bit easier if I like, know your name.” He doesn’t look, but he can tell the guy is squinting at him again, head tilted inquisitively. His hands are probably hung in midair over the keyboard again too. There’s a drawn out silence and it goes on long enough that Dean starts to think he’s going to reject this totally reasonable request and actually remain anonymous for the next fourteen days.

“This doesn’t suck for me,” he says instead.

“Oh,” Dean replies cleverly, placing cheese on his sandwich with artful perfection.

“It’s inconvenient but it’s not the end of the world. I don’t mind having a bit of company while I write. It keeps me from getting lost in my own head. As long as you’re not going to try to read over my shoulder or blare the tv while I’m working it shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll stop for the night around seven and you can feel free to turn it on then. I think we’ll be just fine.”

“Alright then,” Dean says. “That’s reasonable.” He goes back to making his sandwich, and its several more minutes of silence before his companion speaks up again.

“It’s Castiel, by the way,” he calls out, keyboard still clacking away.

“Nice to meet ya, Castiel,” Dean replies. “I’m Dean.”

“I know. Your brother called you by name before he left.”

“Oh. Yeah. Forgot about that.” Dean finishes his roast beef masterpiece, slicing it diagonally because everyone knows a sandwich tastes better when you cut it that way, and deposits the whole thing on a plate. He’s just about to take it outside to enjoy on the veranda, when a clever idea occurs to him. “Do you want a sandwich, Castiel?”

When Dean glances over towards the table, Castiel is staring at him appraisingly again like he’s trying to find the hook in the offer. “I’ve got plenty of food if I get hungry,” he replies somewhat tersely, turning his full attention back to the screen in front of him.

Dean can take a hint. He takes his sandwich out to the veranda without another word. All he was trying to do was be friendly. They may not be stuck together of their own free will, and they don’t have to be best buddies, but at least they could be friendly. It would be a whole lot better if they were friendly. Apparently Castiel has markedly different ideas, however, so whatever. Let him eat frozen pizza and microwaved hotdogs for the next two weeks. Dean’s used to cooking for one.

~*~

Dean spends the afternoon exploring the area around the cabin. Outside of the gravel drive and an area around the cabin itself that falls well short of being an actual yard, everything is pretty thickly wooded. Dean could pick a path through the trees if necessary, he supposes, but it’s enough to cut out the sounds of any traffic that might pass along the remote road up the hill and leave them feeling almost entirely secluded.

Down the path towards the lake, the lush greenery of the forest gradually gives way to a rocky lakeshore. Dean isn’t entirely certain what lake they’re on, but it’s gorgeous. Afternoon sunlight sparkles off the rippling surface of the water, and though the sun beats down mercilessly from its slow descent towards the horizon, a soft breeze drifts across the water to take the edge off the heat, leaving Dean feeling quite comfortable. He takes a cautious step onto the dock and finds it sturdy and sound. There’s a chair down at the end of the wooden surface, so he strides towards it and deposits himself into the waiting seat.

He wishes he’d brought a book. On his way out of the cabin he noticed a shelf of paperbacks in the main room, and if he’d been thinking he’d have pawed through them to find something appealing to drag along. This would be a perfect place to sit and read with an ice cold beer. He didn’t bring one of those down either.

After a couple of minutes enjoying the stillness of the lake, Dean gets restless. His hands fidget and his toes tap and he keeps glancing around for a distraction to focus on, and before long, any peace he found in the quiet of the lake is gone. His mind is not content to rest here. Maybe tomorrow, when this whole thing is less foreign, he’ll be able to settle in and do nothing, but for now, he needs something to draw his focus.

~*~

He walks up to the road and back down, a terrible idea in flip flops, then back down to the lake to see how far to either side of the dock he can walk before the shoreline puts too many obstacles in his way. Dean figures it’s maybe a ten minute walk in either direction of the dock, and maybe an hour round trip to the road and back, so it eats up a big chunk of the afternoon. It burns off a decent amount of the restless energy that’s keeping him from sitting still, too. Dean’s legs are tired and sore by the time he heads back up to the cabin and the sun still beats down, long hours from even thinking about setting for the night. And the whole time, along the lakeshore and up to the road, he saw not a single sign of life. No evidence of other human habitation, no distant silhouettes of other people on the lake, no cars rattling by on the road. Nothing that indicates another cabin near-by. Nothing at all. If it weren’t for Castiel, he’d be well and truly alone out here for the next two weeks. He’s not sure if that makes Castiel’s presence extra annoying or increasingly comforting, and attempting to decide seems way too close to the kind of introspection Sam sent him up here to get a handle on, so he kicks it to the curb immediately.

“Find anything interesting?” Castiel asks from his keyboard when Dean ducks back into the cabin. It’s kind of a surprise that Castiel acknowledges him at all, what with the blunt dismissal Dean received last time they spoke. The analog clock on the wall ticks quietly in the background and tells Dean it’s just past five. Between the fresh air and the impromptu hiking, he’s starting to get a bit hungry, so it’s probably about time to start thinking about dinner.

“Not really? The dock by the lake seems like it’s safe enough to use so I’m probably going to head out there to do a bit of fishing in the morning, so that’s cool. No sign of civilization anywhere that I could see.”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees. “That appears to be why Gabriel picked it for me. He thinks the sounds of the city were interfering with my writing process and that a change of scenery would kick-start the creativity.” The derisive tone tells Dean pretty much everything he needs to know about Castiel’s opinion of that assessment, but he asks anyway.

“And what do you think?” he inquires. Dean’s still a little wary of poking this particular bear since he hasn’t been exactly friendly thus far, but a little chatter can’t hurt.

“I think the city has nothing to do with it. I knew exactly what I wanted to write, I just couldn’t pick the right words.”

“So not _exactly_ what you wanted then,” Dean replies with trademark sass. The look on Castiel’s face instantly lets him know he’s gone too far, but there’s no angry tirade to follow.

“Apparently not,” he mutters. Dean waits for him to comment further but it seems that’s the extent of the conversation he’s getting for now, as Castiel falls silent and spares no attention for anything outside of his computer.

Alright. Whatever. Dean didn’t come up here to make friends.

~*~

Dean throws a steak on the grill. It’s nice having access to one, plus the view is gorgeous, so while he’s not exactly chilled out by the time his dinner is ready, he is definitely in an okay mood. He’d love to sit outside and eat it, but a steak seems like something that requires a proper table to sit at and the tiny side-tables on the veranda don’t seem that sturdy, so he carts his bounty back inside to sit at the table. Castiel is still working, and he barely looks up when Dean sits across from him at the table.

The steak is perfect. Sam didn’t skimp on the food he sent Dean up with, that’s for damn sure. It’s a beautifully marbled cut of beef, much nicer than Dean would usually spring for, and despite the fact that Dean is a bit out of practice with an open flame, he’s managed to grill it exactly the way he likes it, a precise medium rare. It takes all the (very scant) decorum at Dean’s disposal not to moan enthusiastically around the first bite of meat, so tender it nearly melts in his mouth, but his eyes do slip closed as he savours the taste of it.

“That smells amazing,” Castiel chimes in. Dean glances up at him, but he’s still focused entirely on his laptop. And it’s a totally innocuous comment, certainly nothing to get all worked up about especially considering how bluntly he responded last time Dean offered to share foodstuffs, but it’s also exactly what someone who regretted not accepting a previous offer of shared food would say if they were hoping for a second offer to come around.

“It is,” Dean assures him. “I gotta find out what butcher my brother picked these steaks up from when I get back to town. Fuckin’ perfect.”

Castiel says nothing.

“Grill’s still probably pretty hot. If you’re interested, I could throw another one on for you.” Sam picked him up four steaks, each easily big enough for a meal, and that’s in addition to all the other stuff he crammed into boxes and coolers. He knows he can pack away a lot of food but like, he’s only here for two weeks. There’s a limit to how much a single dude can reasonably consume in fourteen days. He can totally spare a single steak.

Castiel sighs heavily, peeling his eyes away from the computer screen to stare witheringly at Dean. “Why do you keep trying to feed me? Do I give off the impression that I’m incapable of feeding myself? You saw the kitchen. I’m perfectly well stocked, and I’ll stop writing to make something to eat when I’m hungry. I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Suit yourself,” Dean replies with a fair helping of snark. He’s not one to run from a fight, but hey, Sam did send him up here to chill the fuck out and Castiel is clearly not the chilliest company at the moment, so Dean makes what is perhaps an unnecessary show of picking up his plate and his beer, tromping over to the door, and disappearing out into the wilderness with his damn steak. He slams the door behind him, but that’s totally an accident. His hands are too full, is all. Not that Castiel will know that.

Despite the annoying hurdle of cutting steak while balancing the plate on his lap, Dean enjoys his dinner outside. It really is gorgeous, this picturesque little escape Sam has arranged for him. It doesn’t do much to dampen his resentment at basically being carted off to summer camp by a helicopter sibling, but it could be worse. It could definitely be worse. He could be at home alone right now, for example, in his empty apartment. The one he moved into when Lisa kicked him out. That would be worse. He could be sitting on his couch drinking beer inside, eating food not prepared on a barbeque and having a lonely pity party. That would be way worse.

It’s not even that he liked Lisa that much.

Okay, that’s a lie. He really did. Lisa was great. She was fantastic. Smart and funny, totally confident. Gorgeous. And for a really long time, she did an amazing job of putting up with Dean’s bullshit. His surly attitude and emotional unavailability never seemed to get to her, except obviously they did, and they probably had been for a really long time before she started losing patience. But Dean being Dean, being presented with that was not enough of a sign that he should open up, do some soul searching, and figure his shit out, so it was a short road downhill from there, and before he knew it, Dean’s things were in boxes and Lisa was saying goodbye.

Mood entirely soured, Dean sits outside long after his steak is gone, long after his beer is drained. The sun still hangs around near the horizon and it won’t set for a while yet, but it’s much closer to disappearing for the night before Dean finally collects his dishes and takes himself back inside.

Apparently eager to prove that he can take care of himself, Castiel is standing in the kitchen, looming over what was once a frozen pizza, but is now a charred disc with some splotches that probably used to be cheese adorning its blackened surface. Castiel is cutting into it with a large kitchen knife, fighting tooth and nail to get the blade through the cardboard circle still stuck to the bottom of the thing. It is nearly comical, but Dean is stopped from laughing by the absolutely murderous look in Castiel’s eye, daring him to comment. And also by the aforementioned large knife, which can’t be all that sharp if he can’t cut a pizza with it, but would still hurt a great deal if he decided to turn it on Dean. He holds Castiel’s eye contact for a few long, drawn out moments, then slowly turns towards the bookshelf in the living room. He shouldn’t have to hide in his room but he’s definitely going to, and since he didn’t think to pack any books of his own, he’ll have to rely on the in-house library. When he selects a paperback copy of The Old Man and the Sea, he’s not thinking about the fact that it’s classic literature or anything his high school teachers may have said about the book. He’s thinking about something boring enough to put him to sleep, and an excuse to leave the room because he can feel Castiel’s eyes boring holes into the back of his skull and if he sticks around any longer he’s probably going to offer to make the guy a fucking sandwich again. And really, he’s been plenty nice, and if his cellmate wants to eat processed crap burnt to a crisp, then he can fuckin’ go for it.

Dean hits his head on the top bunk four times trying to get comfortable, and Hemingway is just as boring as he expected, but he’s still awake long after he hears Castiel shuffle down the hall and close the door to his own room.


	4. Chapter 4

First thing in the morning, way earlier than Dean would be awake back home even on a work day, he rolls out of bed and stumbles to the coffee maker. Out of the goodness of his heart, and not at all because he’s worried what kind of an attitude Castiel might have without caffeine in his system, he makes as much coffee as the thing will hold, fills a travel mug, and heads outside. Sam made him stop to grab bait worms at a gas station back towards town, and there’s a couple of rods on the wall, and he hasn’t been fishing since Dad died, so why the hell not. Even as a teenager he found it relaxing, just sitting out on a dock or drifting in a small boat, sun climbing up above the tree tops. Didn’t even matter if they caught anything, which is good because they rarely did, it was just a nice escape. He’s hoping for the same thing now.

Dean sets himself up in a wooden chair on the dock, coffee mug beside his foot, and casts his line into the lake. It’s so still it almost looks glasslike up until his hook disturbs the surface, sending little ripples cascading out along the water. There has to be so much life under these clear waters, fish and other creatures, aquatic plants anchored to rocks and rooted in the silt down below, but from up here it looks serene. Peaceful.

Dean’s not jealous. Nope.

And for a time, it works. He does feel a bit calmer out here, removed from life, alone and content to be that way. He sips his coffee and watches the lake, and he’s okay. Nothing bites, though he does feel a tug on the line a couple times and pulls it up to find the hook empty, no bait or catch to be seen, so he re-sets it and tries again, but he’s out of coffee and still nothing to show for his efforts.

The clock on his phone says he’s been outside for an hour and a half by the time he decides fishing is more trouble than it’s worth, but it feels like he’s spent the entire morning doing nothing. He’s no more relaxed than he was when he started. Possibly even more tense than before, because those scaly fuckers are stealing his bait and not even biting the damn hook. At least it’s late enough in the day that he can go back in and make breakfast.

Castiel is sitting in his usual spot when Dean gets back. He doesn’t look up as Dean hangs the fishing rod back up, or when he kicks his boots off in a heap by the door, but Dean notices there’s a steaming mug beside Castiel’s computer and less coffee in the pot than when he left, so at least that’s not something they have to get into a shouting match about.

Dean makes bacon, eggs, toast, and hash browns. He doesn’t bother asking if Castiel wants any, because he doesn’t feel like having that fucking argument again, but he does make too much bacon and twice as many hash browns as he plans to eat, and leaves them in the kitchen without a word when he’s done cleaning up. They’ll either be there when he gets back in, or they won’t. Then he changes into swim trunks, grabs a towel, a book that that _isn’t_ Hemingway, and a couple cans of beer, and heads down to the dock again.

It’s just sheer dumb luck that Dean doesn’t get sunscreen in his eyes, because he’s an absolute mess putting the stuff on, but the only other option is to ask Castiel to help and like. No. If Castiel gets his hackles up about the idea of Dean making him a fucking sandwich, there’s no telling how worked up he’ll get over a request for a favour that involves like, touching and stuff. Plus, there’s this intensity about him that Dean finds frankly unsettling, something way bigger than his short temper and the fact that he’s even more closed off than Dean himself. Dean’s not really sure he could handle having Castiel’s hands on him. He’s hot, and he’s also clearly not interested in Dean as either a bed partner or even just a regular human being, so Dean needs to keep his thoughts on the matter purely PG or he’s gonna end up creating a whole bunch of new problems that don’t already exist and nope, he doesn’t need that. So what if it means he misses like half of his back with sunscreen. He’ll fucking deal.

He tries to get into the book that isn’t Hemingway. He really tries. It takes him like two whole beers, beers he drinks _really slowly_ , to get through the first couple chapters, because he spaces out and keeps rereading the same line a bunch of times. At that point, he’s not even sure he has the slightest clue what’s happening, and he also doesn’t think he cares anymore. If it weren’t someone else’s book, he’d probably pitch it into the lake just to make sure it knew perfectly well how displeased he was with the whole affair, but it _is_ someone else’s book, so he sets it gently on the dock and lets his disapproving stare do the talking.

Dean isn’t sure the book understands his point of view, but that’s okay because he doesn’t exactly get where it’s coming from either.

He doesn’t want to read, but he doesn’t exactly want to go back inside yet, so Dean stretches out on his towel and lets the summer sun warm his skin. He’s going to have about a thousand new freckles by the time he heads home at this rate. It’s soothing, for a while, to just lay still and not do anything. Like napping, but awake. It ain’t half bad. But it doesn’t last. Nothing good ever does, does it? Just as Dean feels himself start to settle, his mind starts getting distracted by little noises. A frog croaks somewhere off to his left, and he’s pulled back to reality. Birds chirp, and it keeps him from clearing his mind. His knee aches. Something makes his arm itch, and he opens his eyes to see if it’s a bug or just some phantom sensation. Deal with the distraction, settle back in, get distracted again.

And then he starts thinking. Overthinking, really. There’s so much he could be doing if he was home right now. There’s an Ikea bookshelf in a box on the floor that he’s been meaning to put together but hasn’t bothered, and it’d be nice to get all his books actually unpacked. It’s been months. A little bit of a scuff on the fender of his Baby that could use some TLC. Dishes. Laundry. People he’s been meaning to catch up with but hasn’t made time for. Errands. Banking. Everything. Nothing. There are so, so many things he should be tending to, and it isn’t even like any one of them is particularly important but the idea of _not_ maximizing his time right now is just…

Overwhelming.

He can’t sit still like this. It seeps into his bones and makes his skin itch, this need to be active. He needs to move. Needs to do something. Anything at all other than sitting still. Then he won’t be wasting time. Then maybe he’ll stop stressing out.

After checking four times to make sure his phone isn’t in one of the pockets of his shorts, Dean kicks off his drug store flip flops and jumps into the lake. And he instantly regrets it. For starters, it is _way_ colder than it looks, and for another thing, his foot brushes up against some kind of plant that feels slimy and kinda gross. But he’s already cold, right? So he might as well give swimming a shot. It’s better than sitting on the damn dock thinking about all the shit he isn’t getting done.

Dean doesn’t get why people do this. It’s nowhere near as fun or relaxing as Sam kept insisting the whole drive up here. Swimming is exercise, first of all, and it’s not like there’s anyone here to horse around with even if that seemed like more fun, so it’s basically swimming laps without any lane markers. Dean is a decent swimmer, but as a necessity because dad raised them to be rugged and self-sufficient and that meant learning to swim well enough to keep themselves from drowning and save each other if necessary. Didn’t exactly instill a sense of fun or a love of the water into Dean. The further out into the lake he gets, the fewer leaves and weeds brush up against his legs and it’s somewhat less unsettling, but then he sees a bird of some kind swoop low over the water to target a fish, and it poops right as it’s angling back up, and that’s it. Dean’s not swimming in a bird toilet. It’s not happening. He swims back to the dock as fast as he can manage, taking great care to ensure none of the disgusting lake water gets in his mouth. He doesn’t even bother towelling off all the way before starting back up towards the cabin, and he doesn’t care that his wet feet are picking up all manner of crap on the dirt path, either. He’s just going to get right in the shower anyway.

Nature is disgusting.

~*~

“Stop pacing,” Castiel snaps. As usual, he doesn’t even look up from his laptop, but Dean can feel the weight of his stupid eyes anyway.

“I’m not,” Dean insists. He totally is.

“You are.” At least they’re in agreement on that. “And it’s incredibly distracting.”

“Sorry,” Dean snipes, not at all sincere. “Didn’t realize walking was enough to keep you from your Pulitzer.” He’s still meandering around the living room, peering at the spines on the books, the DVD library by the TV, the art on the walls. He’s barely seeing any of it. He just can’t sit still.

“ _You’re_ incredibly distracting,” Castiel corrects himself. Any other day, from anyone else, Dean might take that as a compliment. He’s been called distracting in much nicer tones before, and it’s led to a lot of fun. This ain’t that. “Aren’t you capable of sitting still for five minutes?”

_Apparently not,_ Dean wants to tell him. Instead, he just turns and glares at Castiel. It’s not entirely true though. Dean did sit still for like, half an hour.  He sat on the couch, didn’t even bounce his leg or fiddle with things. Flipped through a magazine. Read a newspaper from three days ago. Then he got restless and went to tidy up the kitchen, pleased at least to find that the bacon and hash browns he left on the counter got eaten. He knew better than to bring it up, but he noticed. Washed all the dishes. Straightened up. Restocked the beer in the fridge.  Flipped through another magazine.

Then the pacing started.

It’s not Dean’s fault he’s bored. There’s nothing to do up here. No cable. No internet. No one to talk to, except Castiel, who despite his earlier insistence that this doesn’t suck for him, seems to hate everything Dean does and also everything Dean doesn’t do and has no desire to talk to him beyond absolute necessities or outright criticism. All the books he’s tried reading so far suck real hard. What he wouldn’t give for some Vonnegut right now. All this cabin’s owner seems to enjoy reading is Nicholas Sparks novels and that Supernatural series by Carver Edlund, which has _far_ more installments than Dean thinks necessary. He’s bored enough that he’s actually tempted to pick up the first one and see how bad it truly is.

All of which is irrelevant, because right now he’s fighting with Castiel.

“Of course I am,” Dean snaps.

“Then maybe you could try doing that for a while. You’re distracting.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, you mentioned that.”

“I’m aware,” Castiel informs him. “Apparently part of the message was lost in translation the first time though, so I thought it might be necessary to repeat it.”

“Fine,” Dean barks. He spares Castiel another withering glare, then storms out the door muttering under his breath something quite unkind about how a writer should be better at fucking communicating. This time, when he slams the door, it’s on purpose.

~*~

Why does Castiel get under his skin so easily? What is it about this dude that makes Dean so goddamned angry?

Dean doesn’t come up with an answer, so he pitches another rock into the middle of the lake as hard as he can. He knows how to skip rocks, when he can find smooth ones the right shape, and there are probably some of those hanging around here, but right now he’s way too pissed off to bother doing anything other than hurling the biggest stones he can pick up and watching them disturb the calm of the lake’s surface. If he can’t be calm, neither can the fucking water.

He’s not that distracting. Castiel can suck it. It’s not Dean’s fault the guy can’t concentrate with any noise at all. Maybe he should invest in some noise cancelling headphones or something. Honestly, Dean’s surprised he can hear anything at all with his head crammed so far up his ass.

Dean’s running out of rocks, so he moves a few feet down the shore to a spot that hasn’t been picked quite so clean of ammunition. A mottled stone about the size of his fist makes a really satisfying splash when he pitches it overhand into the lake. He throws another one, and another, just a steady stream of muttered curses and rocks flying through the air. It’s not even cathartic, not like punching someone would be. Someone named Castiel who can’t make a frozen pizza without the fire department intervening and finds Dean’s entire existence annoying. Not cathartic at all. Just something to do.

Dean doesn’t even know why he’s still out here. He stormed out of the cabin like, an hour ago, and it’s just as much his cabin as Castiel’s anyway. He has just as much right to be there. He’ll go back. Yeah. That’s what he’ll do. He’ll go back up there and tell that stuck up hack to cram it wherever his species traditionally crams things, and he’ll pace as much as he fucking wants.

Or. Dinner. Maybe instead of pacing he’ll make dinner.

Either way, Castiel can shut the fuck up and deal with it.

Dean already knows that’s not how it’s gonna go, but the dinner part is solid, so he’ll stick to it anyway.

On the walk back up, which is not that long, Dean focuses on trying to calm the fuck down. Not even like, meditation or whatever Sammy would tell him to do. Just trying to return to normal Dean levels of stress instead of going nuclear with irritation like he currently is. It’s not particularly successful, but at least as he opens the door he’s reasonably certain he’s not going to sucker punch Castiel the second he’s in arms reach.

That is, of course, until he sees the black smoke billowing out of the stove.

“What the fuck are you burning now?” Dean barks, about ready to start throwing fists.

“It…” Castiel drops whatever was supposed to be his dinner into the sink, slips his hand out of an oven mitt, and turns on the tap. There’s still smoke pouring out of the sink and the oven, but at least he’s extinguished whatever it was. “It was supposed to be a lasagna.”

“One of those ready-made frozen things?” Dean asks, still really fucking bluntly. Castiel nods, eyes downcast, the least confrontational he’s been at any point since they met. “Those things take like an hour to cook. I was only _gone_ an hour. How did you manage to burn it to a crisp already?!”

“I don’t know,” Castiel replies softly. It’s almost enough to make Dean sympathetic. Almost.

“Jesus Christ, Cas. You might want to reconsider that whole _I don’t need a babysitter_ thing. From where I’m standing, you definitely need 24/7 adult supervision.”

And now Dean’s really gone and done it. He can see it coming. All that softness in his voice just now is going to disappear and he’s going to go stone cold brutal, tear Dean a new one. Dean’s going to wake up with a horse head in his bed or something equally vindictive. He’s got like 12 more days stuck in the middle of nowhere with this irritable, moody asshole writer, and Dean had to go and piss him off.

Only, instead of blowing a gasket, or dismantling Dean with a coldly delivered rebuttal, or that death stare he seems to be so good at, Castiel’s shoulders start to shake. At first it’s almost imperceptible, but then it’s undeniable, and then he’s huffing out a laugh, and then Dean’s chuckling, and then for some goddamned reason they are both laughing so hard there are tears in their eyes. And Dean has no fucking idea what just happened.

“I just,” Castiel begins, still choking on his own giggles. “I can’t even argue that. I’m a terrible cook.”

“This isn’t even cooking!” Dean exclaims between peals of laughter. “You’re reheating something made in a factory and you still manage to turn it to charcoal! I don’t even understand! The instructions are pretty fuckin clear.”

Cas stops laughing.

It takes Dean all of five seconds to catch up. “You don’t follow the instructions?”

“It’s food. I’m making it be hot. How much instruction could it possibly take?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna be a whole lot more open to that position when you’re not standing over the charred remains of your most recent victim.” Dean instantly regrets his phrasing, but it’s too late to have it back now. It brings up all sorts of mental images of the positions he’d be open to if Castiel were to say the word, and this vacation has been tense enough without Dean introducing unnecessary sexual tension into the mix.

“Touché,” Castiel replies with a snort. “I uh. Sorry. It smells like smoke in here now.”

“I wasn’t planning on using the oven anyway,” Dean assures him. “I was going to throw some burgers on the grill, and seeing as you already destroyed your dinner, I’ll throw on enough for you too.” Castiel opens his mouth to protest, but Dean cuts him off before he gets a chance to utter a word. “I think we’ve got enough evidence here to prove you’re not to be trusted in a kitchen. I’m not taking no for an answer. Barbequed burgers. I’ve got a couple bags of potato chips we can open. No arguments.”

“Fair enough,” Castiel concedes, spreading his hands as if to show he’s been disarmed. “You’re going to insist on cooking for me the rest of the time we’re up here, aren’t you?”

“Let it never be said that you’re a slow learner,” Dean replies with a grin. “How do you even survive at home, anyway? You just eat raw food all the time or something?”

“I can fry an egg,” Castiel tells him defensively.

“One trick pony. Not gonna get far with that.”

“Yeah. I mostly order takeout and eat cereal.” He leans up against the fridge with arms crossed over his chest.

“That’s a shitty life, dude.”

Castiel shrugs. “Not cooking leaves me more time to write. Same with not having to wash dishes. Plus there are some great restaurants in my neighborhood. And, I don’t know. I never learned to cook. I feel like I’m a bit too old to start getting a handle on the basics now.”

“Bullshit,” Dean informs Castiel, shooing him out of the way of the fridge so he can start pulling out ingredients. “Lesson one: read the fucking instructions. How long did the box say to cook your lasagna at, and what temperature?”

Castiel shrugs again, but he pulls the box out of the trash. “350 degrees for 50 minutes.”

“And you cooked it at what temperature?”

“I don’t remember. I just turned it up high so it would get hot faster.”

Dean rolls his eyes so hard it hurts. “No. Don’t do that. Turn the oven to the temperature you need to cook the thing at, let it heat until the light goes off, put your food in, and set a timer. Do not deviate.”

“I’ll be sure to remember that next time I heat something up,” Castiel says blandly.

“Which will not be for the duration of this trip,” Dean informs him in a flat tone. “It’s one thing to be stranded out here in the middle of nowhere with a guy I don’t know but I’m sure as fuck not burning to death because you got a craving for pizza. You let me do the cooking. Anything more complicated than putting bread in a toaster, you either do with my supervision or not at all.”

“You’re a harsh taskmaster,” Castiel says, but he doesn’t protest. Instead, he just heads back to his laptop, and Dean gets to preparing his tried and true burger recipe serenaded by the sound of Castiel tapping away at his keyboard.

After dinner, Dean’s pawing through the small collection of DVD’s trying to pick something to watch when Castiel pulls a baggie of weed and some rolling papers out of his pocket, sitting down beside Dean to roll a joint at the coffee table. Dean eyes him sideways a little but doesn’t say anything.

“You wanna join me?” Castiel asks when he finishes rolling, holding up the joint in case Dean was unsure what he was being invited along for.

Dean shakes his head. “Nah,” he replies. “Not really my thing.”

Castiel shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He ghosts out the door, lighter in hand, and when he returns ten minutes later, he smells of pungent smoke, and his eyes are red. He seems chill; calm in a way Dean himself can’t really fathom. Dean wonders what it might be like to feel that relaxed, but once again that feels far too close to the kind of introspection that Sam sent him up here for, so he stuffs it down and cracks another beer. He’s on vacation, after all.


	5. Chapter 5

Despite the bunk bed, Dean sleeps soundly. More soundly than he does at home, at any rate, though he can’t really understand why because he doesn’t feel that far removed from any of the reasons he doesn’t sleep well usually. All the stress of real life is still waiting there when he gets back. All the frustration of his existence is just on pause right now, not really gone anywhere. But he slept, and that’s something.

He’s not ready to try fishing again, not yet, so there’s none of this crack of dawn business. He sleeps late enough that the sun filtering through the trees casts dappled patterns on the wooden floor of the cabin and warms the air in the room before he throws back the sheets. Even through the night, it’s too warm out here in the woods for more than a single layer, but he just can’t bring himself to sleep without the familiar weight of some kind of cover. Dean draws sleep pants on over his boxers, then makes his way out to the kitchen. Too late, he thinks he probably should have put a shirt on, but Cas is already sitting at the table, glancing up from his laptop for once, and he doesn’t actually seem fazed by Dean’s state of undress. Dean shrugs it off, noticing that Castiel hasn’t made coffee yet, so he brews a big pot and lingers in the kitchen while it percolates noisily.

“How do you like it?” He asks Castiel when the pot finishes brewing. Castiel looks up at him, a petulant response about his ability to fend for himself forming and dying on his lips in the space of a moment. It’s all there in his eyes though, a face journey from _how dare you_ to _oh yes we resolved this already_ that starts and ends so quickly Dean could have blinked and missed it, but it amuses him to no end to see Castiel brought up short like that.

“Black,” he replies, as if none of that transpired, and he hums gratefully when Dean sets a steaming mug down on the table just out of splash range of his laptop. Dean may be kind of a jerk, but he’s not, strictly speaking, inconsiderate.

“If you’ve got any specific requests for breakfast, now’s the time,” Dean informs him, leaving no room for negotiation as to whether he’s preparing Castiel a meal. Cooking is one of the only things he’s finding any solace in up here, and he means to cling to it.

“Whatever you want to make is fine,” Castiel tells him, either truly disinterested or just sensing Dean’s resolution and knowing it’s a tide he needs to go along with. It doesn’t really matter either way. They don’t need to be friends, right? They just have to get along well enough not to kill each other over the next couple weeks.

Dean wishes that was a comfort instead of something that grated at him.

~*~

Dean’s bored. It’s a weird feeling. He’s not used to being bored. Hell, he doesn’t even remember the last time he had _time_ to be bored. His life has been so full for so long, first with Lisa, and then with the grueling schedule he set for himself, that he isn’t even sure he knows _how_ to be bored anymore. None of that is really relevant though, because the problem at hand is that he _is_ bored, and he has no idea how to handle that. It’s like he’s been in a cast for months and is just now learning to walk again, and the muscles in his leg are vaguely aware of what to do but they just don’t have the ability to do anything about it. They try to hold him up but they falter. They try to take the first hesitant steps, but he just can’t put one foot in front of the other. He tries to entertain himself, to fill the hours with things that are productive or useful or entertaining, but mostly, he finds himself restless and irritated and irritable and, if Castiel is to be consulted on the matter, probably irritating, too.

Actually, he doesn’t even need to ask. He knows. Castiel finds him incredibly irritating. He doesn’t even try to hide it.

He’s spent most of the day out of the cabin finding things to do. Trying to find things to do. Trying and failing to find things to do. It’s like, killing time. His entire life right now is killing time between making meals, and then killing more time before sleep.

And as much as it’s making him surly, it’s making Castiel fucking unbearable. He’s elevated muttering under his breath to a fucking art form, and Dean is his apparent muse. They cannot exist in the same space without Castiel finding fault in some or all of what Dean is currently doing, and he is not shy about announcing this. So even if Dean doesn’t really feel like going outside, it’s either that or sit there and endure another barrage of Castiel’s scrutiny.

Despite a complete lack of desire to do any such thing, Dean takes the first installment in the Supernatural series down to the dock and drapes himself over the chair down there, just to get away from Castiel’s disapproving glances and homicidal mutterings. Oddly enough he finds himself at least a little immersed in the damned thing. Sure, it’s not award winning literature, and he sure as hell won’t be joining the fan club, but it certainly fits the definition of a beach read. It’s pulpy and kinda predictable, and he doesn’t _totally_ hate it.

Hey, at least he’s able to follow the damn thing. It’s better than yesterday.

Eventually though, his thoughts begin to drift again. Maybe it’s because he’s got the space to think, an absence of pressing matters to occupy his mind, but all the things he’s been resolutely not thinking about start to creep back up towards the surface and rear their heads, and they will not be silenced.

He knows he’s been avoiding reality for a long-ass time now. He’s been avoiding it on purpose and he’s also been intentionally ignoring the fact that he’s avoiding things. That’s why he hasn’t put the Ikea shelf together yet. That’s why he hasn’t decorated his apartment at all. That’s why he’s been spending more time than is reasonable at work and pouring himself into the job and making sure there was no time in his life for anything else. Dean’s never been bothered by being single before now, but he’s also never lost anything as big as his relationship with Lisa before, either. Sure, there have been other people who mattered, but this was different. Cassie, he loved, and there’s no denying that, but he was young and reckless back then and he never held any illusions about settling down at that point. It’s not even that he couldn’t have settled down with her, it’s that at 23, he couldn’t have settled down with anyone. He wasn’t that guy, and he wouldn’t have been good for her. With Lisa, he made the conscious decision to settle down, to pick that life and stay in one place and put down roots, but he still managed to find a way to royally fuck it up.

Maybe he’s just not relationship material. Maybe Dean Winchester is such a king of the one-night stand because that’s all he’s good for. He’s an excellent lay. Men and women alike have told him that time and time again, and he knows it. He puts a lot of energy into making it good for his partner, figuring out what they like and giving them the time of their life. But all the other stuff, the emotions and the connecting and the commitment, that’s where he fails. He doesn’t know why, or maybe he does and he won’t look at it, but that’s where it falls apart. Maybe it was never going to work out with Lisa, because that’s just not who Dean is.

Any solace Dean found in the pulpy paperback clutched in his hands is gone the moment he boards that train of thought. He knows himself well enough to know he’s not going to get it back sitting out here staring at the lake.

It’s the first time since Lisa kicked him out that he’s really let himself think much about any of this stuff, and it stings no less for the time and distance he’s put between himself and the actual breakup. The fact that it was six months ago becomes irrelevant now that he’s started to dredge it all up again, and suddenly he wants to go back to the cabin and get blind, stinking drunk, just for something else to do. It won’t take his mind off of it. Hell, it’ll probably make things much worse, but he doesn’t care. He just wants a drink.

Castiel is still writing when Dean returns, no surprise, and he doesn’t even look up when Dean strides to the fridge and pulls out a beer. He drinks half of it standing in the kitchen, then takes the remainder to the couch and parks himself on the end furthest from Castiel, his entire body exuding frustration and irritation. Dean has no idea what he intends to accomplish here, other than drinking beer in the middle of the afternoon, but he’s barely sat down with beer in hand when an exasperated sigh from the other side of the room assaults him.

“What?” Dean snaps, not even turning to look at Castiel.

“I could ask you the same question,” Castiel replies, smugness rolling off of every syllable.

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Well I thought it’d be fairly obvious that I’m curious as the cause of your current…mood,” Castiel informs him, casual as you please, “but being that you stormed in here, slammed half a beer, and threw yourself at that couch with such vigor I could be forgiven for thinking it was the couch that upset you, I find it hard to believe you have no idea what I’m referring to. You’re not subtle. So what’s up?”

Dean grumbles, but Castiel isn’t wrong. He’s not exactly hiding his emotional state at the moment. “Doesn’t matter,” he mutters in reply.

“If it doesn’t matter, then why is it bothering you so much?”

“Look, I get it. I’m ruining your flow or whatever. I’ll just try to sit over here and brood quietly okay? It’ll be like I’m not even here.” Dean’s beer is already empty, and that’s annoying, so he stomps (quietly) to the fridge for another one.

“You know, bottling things up like that isn’t healthy. They’re just going to sit there and fester, and you’ll be worse off than if you just dealt with it in the first place.”

Dean snorts, which he has to acknowledge is a really unpleasant sound, but it’s genuine. “You sound like my fucking brother.”

“Then your brother is an astute man.”

“Yeah and I don’t talk to him about my shit either.”

Castiel laughs, but it’s not unkind. “Maybe you should. Or you could tell me. Doesn’t matter that I don’t know the first thing about you, sometimes just getting it off your chest helps deal with whatever’s pissing you off.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Not gonna happen, Dr. Phil.”

“Suit yourself,” Castiel replies, unperturbed. “But if you’re just going to sit over there stewing in your own juices, then I’m gonna have to stop writing for the night. You are, as I mentioned previously, incredibly distracting.”

“Sorry,” Dean mutters, at least halfway genuine this time.

“It’s fine,” he says with a shrug. “I wasn’t getting anywhere today anyway.”

“What are you working on?” Dean asks, fully intentionally changing the subject away from his concerns and on to Castiel’s work.

“A novel that should have been finished a long time ago,” Castiel sighs. “My last published work was the conclusion of a series I had going, and since I wrapped up that world I’ve just kinda been drifting, My publisher does not like this.”

“Anything I might have read?”

Castiel shrugs again. “I’ve got no idea what you read. But I publish as James Novak, if that rings a bell.” Dean shakes his head. “It’s just as well,” Castiel says with a laugh. “I’d hate to be trapped out here for the next two weeks with a rabid fanboy.”

“Misery,” Dean offers, not sure if he’s making a Stephen King reference or just discussing how unpleasant that would be for Castiel.

“Exactly,” comes the reply, to either or both of the possible meanings. “In any case, I don’t actually know if I recommend my own work? It’s a bit…weird?”

“Define weird,” Dean pushes.

“Like, make you question the nature of reality weird. Mindfucks. Stories that mess with your perception of the world around you.”

“But it sells, and your publisher wants more, so obviously someone recommends it.” For a moment, it feels like Dean’s comforting a friend instead of interacting with a veritable stranger, and that’s weirder than the subject matter.

“I suppose so,” Castiel agrees reluctantly. “Sometimes I doubt that any of it is worth reading though.”

“I’m sure it is,” Dean says, not sure why he cares. “Hey, uh, don’t bite my head off or anything because I’m sure you’re perfectly capable of pouring your own drink if you want one, but since you’ve stopped writing for the night, do you want a beer?”

Castiel laughs, full and throaty. “I’d like that, Dean. Thank you.”

And as they share a couple drinks and talk about the nature of Castiel’s work and how he came to be a writer in the first place, Dean is completely unaware of how entirely he’s forgotten to be upset about Lisa.

~*~

Miraculously, Castiel doesn’t even bat an eye when Dean starts making dinner for the both of them, and he doesn’t offer any protest to the fact that Dean didn’t ask for input. He also doesn’t bother trying to write again now that they’ve eased into the first real conversation they’ve had since being abandoned here by their respective associates, and Dean’s not sure if he should feel flattered or guilty about the fact that he’s taken Castiel away from his work. The attention is nice, even if it isn’t going anywhere, and it’s also a fairly enjoyable change from that thing where Castiel seems to jump down his throat as soon as look at him most of the time.

He wonders how long it’ll last.

Same as last night, after dinner Castiel pulls out a baggie of weed and some rolling papers, and his deft fingers make short work of turning the little green flakes into a neatly rolled joint. He twists the ends securely and cleans up whatever little bits are left on the coffee table, then tucks the joint behind his ear while he searches for a lighter.

“You coming?” he asks Dean casually.

“Nah,” Dean replies.

“You sure?” Castiel asks again. “I mean I know you said it wasn’t really your thing, but listen. You’re clearly stressed right the fuck out. Your brother sent you up here to chill and you are doing the absolute worst job of chilling. And you don’t wanna talk about what you’re stressed about which, fine, do your thing, but maybe you should consider the fact that you need a bit of help relaxing. If you’re not like, morally opposed to drugs or whatever, this could be good for you.”

Dean meets his eyes warily, and finds openness and honesty in them. He doesn’t know Castiel, not really, but nothing about his words or his demeanor or the soft smile on his rugged face give Dean any reason to believe he’s being anything other than kind. It’s weird, but he totally believes that Castiel is offering this out of the goodness of his heart or whatever, out of a selfless desire to give Dean the chance to calm the fuck down.

And you know what?

He’s gonna take it.

“Yeah, alright,” Dean replies, somewhat grudgingly, but he doesn’t feel pressured. Castiel is right. He does need to chill out, and this is probably not a terrible idea.

It’s not that he’s never smoked weed before, and it’s not that he’s _morally opposed_ to drugs like Cas suggested, although he’d stay far away from anything harder. But he’s supposed to be this grown up, responsible guy, and smoking weed just seems so far removed from what he’s supposed to be that he told himself years ago that wasn’t a thing he did anymore. He didn’t go out partying on weekends anymore, he didn’t get blackout drunk, he didn’t pick up chicks (or dudes) at bars for one night stands (and that decision came even before he tried to settle down with Lisa), and he didn’t smoke weed.

But whatever. Maybe trying to be all the things he’s supposed to be is a shitty way to live.

He takes a seat next to Castiel on the veranda, looking out towards the lake where the sun can be seen still amidst the trees. It’s peaceful out here in the evening; calm. Croaks of frogs and chirps of crickets and birds still make up the soundscape of the forest, but in a background way that doesn’t really draw any of his attention. They’re just there. Castiel lights the joint, drawing the smoke into his lungs, and holds his breath as he passes it off to Dean. Their fingertips brush in the handoff, and Dean puts the joint to his lips, breathing in a familiar taste that he hadn’t thought to miss all these years. He definitely does in retrospect. Somewhere, he knows it’s all in his head, because even smoke doesn’t work that fast, but the second it crosses his lips he starts to feel more relaxed, calmer. A little bit of the tension bleeds out of his body and when he breathes out the smoke, he breathes out stress and anger and apprehension along with it. Castiel takes the joint back. Dean sighs contentedly.

Rather than forcing a conversation that doesn’t seem to want to come naturally, Dean lets the somewhat comfortable silence live between them as they pass the joint back and forth, puffing out clouds of smoke. Castiel doesn’t seem all that motivated to fill the silence either, and for as long as the joint burns and longer, the only sounds are those of the birds, and the occasional cough when someone draws too deep. Even after Castiel extinguishes the burning stub on the bottom of his empty beer can, neither of them speaks, and no one moves to head inside.

For the first time in a long time, Dean is stationary and quiet, and perfectly okay with it. He’s not haunted by the ghosts of things he should be accomplishing, he’s not drowning in the memory of things he had and lost. He’s just Dean, in the here and now, totally content to exist in this moment and not think of anything before or after. His limbs feel a bit leaden, but comfortably so, and there’s a grin on his face that he doesn’t recall putting there but can’t seem to get rid of. It’s…nice. He’s content, happy even, and that’s a rather unfamiliar feeling right now.

On some level, he’s irritated that Castiel was right about this, but he’s too chill to care.

Finally, after what seems like a very long time just relaxing outside, Cas picks up his beer can and heads for the door. It takes Dean a second to follow him. Maybe it’s the weed (it’s probably the weed) but he stumbles a little, catching his flip flop on a loose board, and his eyes are definitely on Castiel’s excellent backside instead of where he’s walking, so he almost walks into the doorframe. Cas either doesn’t notice or chooses not to comment, but Dean’s still red in the face for a solid couple of minutes afterwards. _Keep it in your pants, Winchester,_ he tells himself, aware even now of how awkward it would be if he made an unwelcome overture to his accidental roommate. He’s got no desire to be trapped here for the rest of his trip while trying to avoid _that_ elephant in the room.

A couple more beers make it hard to avoid staring at the bit of collar bone that’s exposed by the too-loose neckline of Cas’ shirt,  but when he flops into his (admittedly rather comfortable) bunkbed, he sleeps like the dead.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s a day for fishing. Dean decides that sometime in the middle of the night when he wakes up to take a piss, so he’s down by the dock when the sun is still low in the sky, and everything is still hazy and soft. He could get used to this, he thinks. The freedom. The quiet. It was oppressive at first, but it’s growing on him. Not that he’ll tell Sam that, of course, but it is.

The fish don’t really seem to be biting, but this time around, Dean doesn’t mind. He baits his hook and casts a line, watching the ripples it makes when it disturbs the surface of the water cascade outwards until the pristine surface is no longer glasslike and smooth. Some kind of bird chirps in a tree nearby, and another of the same answers its call, and it kinda feels like everything is right in the world.

If Sam were here, he might ask Dean to think about why today is different; why he’s suddenly capable of relaxing when so far this trip has brought him nothing but strife and irritation. He’d try to make Dean get all introspective and soul-searchy and like, no. Dean’s not about that. He’s calm. He’s happy. That’s all he needs right now. Shoving thoughts of Sam and his self-help stylings aside, he puts more bait on the hook, perfectly content in the knowledge that he’s probably just gonna lose that worm same as he did the last five, takes a sip of his coffee, and smiles.

Dean gets to drink his entire mug of coffee this morning, no errant thoughts or restless limbs interrupting him. He sips slowly and makes his way through every drop before he sets the mug down on the dock, and the morning is still quiet enough that he doesn’t bother to head inside yet. He’s still got bait, and the lake is calm, and why the fuck not? He’s got nothing but time.

He’s down to his last worm when he finally gets a bite. It’s like, fortune or something. Dean doesn’t know. Anyway, there’s a tug on his line, and when he gives it a jerk he can feel the hook set, and whatever he’s got tries to swim for freedom with its food but Dean’s not having any of it. He’s out of his chair in a heartbeat, feet planted, reeling it in like he’s been training his whole damn life for this moment. He supposes he has. All his best memories with his father were fishing trip ones. Hell, those are really the only memories that didn’t involve the late John Winchester yelling about something most of the time. It’s only because of John that he knows how to tell when the fish is getting tired, and when to really go for it as opposed to just fighting to tire it out. It’s such a weird kind of excitement when he finally gets the fish out of the water, a decent sized lake trout, and it’s even weirder that his first thought is to wonder whether Castiel likes fish, because he’s definitely planning on cooking it for dinner.

~*~

Unsurprisingly, Castiel doesn’t even look up from his writing when Dean gets back to the cabin. Hell, Dean wouldn’t even be sure Castiel had noticed him at all if he didn’t call out a short _hello, Dean,_ in greeting, but his tone doesn’t invite any conversation so Dean just says _hey_ in reply and takes the fish to the kitchen to clean it. He doesn’t relish this part. It’s messy. But it’s necessary, and also he’s kinda proud of his catch, so he’s certainly not gonna balk at doing the work required to eat it.

“That’s not breakfast, is it?” Castiel asks at some point while Dean’s dealing with the messy part. Dean laughs.

“Nah this is dinner. You okay with fish?”

“Fish is fine. Just not for breakfast.”

“How about bacon and eggs?” Dean offers, already pretty sure of the response he’s going to get.

“Perfect,” Castiel replies.

Dean has no idea why that makes him so immediately happy.

~*~

Against his better judgement, Dean finishes the first Supernatural novel after breakfast, reclined on the couch and for once not doing anything to impair Castiel’s attempts at writing. He doesn’t even catch heat for fidgeting or pacing or anything! Sure, the book is predictable and kinda silly and not really Dean’s thing, but sure enough, he finishes it not long after he sits down and picks up the second one without much deliberation, and then after lunch he takes it out onto the veranda with a beer and doesn’t even find himself wishing he had some Vonnegut instead.

Who is this person, and what has he done with Dean? Dean doesn’t know, but he’s not gonna ask too many questions.

It’s maybe half past three when Dean picks up the book and his empties and heads back into the cabin (he’s not really sure of the time, because he realizes he’s stopped carrying his phone around and also stopped habitually checking to see what time it is). Mostly he’s headed inside to get out of the sun because he’s noticed about ninety new freckles already, but he regrets it as soon as he walks in the door. This time, it’s Castiel who is pacing, and from the way he’s going at it Dean’s worried he’s gonna wear a hole in the floorboards. It’s not the aimless pacing Dean got in trouble for; Castiel is on a mission, and he’s right pissed that he’s not getting anywhere with it. Dean should just turn around and go back outside before it’s too late, only apparently that ship already sailed.

“Writing is hell,” Castiel blurts out. He’s got his hands tangled in the hair on top of his head, making it even messier than usual if that’s at all possible, and even at a distance his eyes are full of storms, and Dean spares just a moment’s attention to stamp down the urge to just stride across the room and kiss him, because hell, he’s thought Castiel was hot from the moment he laid eyes on him but this intensity is something else entirely.

“I’m gonna take your word for it,” Dean replies carefully, lest his mouth accidentally offer up something much more damning, like an offer to distract him from his woes for a little while.

“Words. Fuck. That’s the entire problem,” he says, spinning on his heel and practically stomping back to the keyboard. “I know exactly what I want to say but I can’t _say_ it.”

And Dean has no idea why he decides he has anything to bring to the table here, because it’s been like three years since he wrote anything longer than a text message, but he speaks anyway. “Talk me through it.” It’s not even a suggestion. It’s basically a command.

Castiel looks at him like he’s got three heads for a second, a look of pure confusion spreading across his face, and Dean thinks he’s about to get told exactly where to cram it, but then Castiel sighs and throws his hands up. “It’s like….” He scrunches up his face. “When a person….or when you….” he trails off, shrugging his shoulders in frustration. “You’re doing a thing, but the reasoning is like….” Castiel makes some sort of hand gesture that is clearly meant to convey some deep meaning, but Dean can’t parse it.

“Do you want me to just read the sentence and see if I can fill in the blank? Like I know this isn’t my bag, but it can’t hurt? I promise I won’t leak any of your secret plot points when we get back to civilization where there’s internet.”

Castiel’s responding laugh is much more of an ugly snort than actual laughter, but Dean sees the humour in it anyway. “Yeah, like the internet cares about my plot.  Have at it,” he says, waving at his laptop. Dean drops his book on the coffee table and approaches with well-hidden trepidation. He tries not to read anything except the last couple sentences on the page, focusing on what a logical progression for the sentence might be. After a few long moments, he backs away and stands up.

“Altruism?” he offers carefully, not sure what kind of a reaction to expect from Castiel. He gets a noise that is nearly a howl, full of frustration and disbelief. “Sorry. That’s probably not at all what you were getting at.”

“No!” Castiel cries, throwing his hands up. “That’s _exactly_ what I was getting at! I’ve been staring at this sentence for over an hour and you waltzed in here and fixed my problem in thirty fucking seconds!”

“It’s no big deal. You’ve been so wrapped up in it you probably couldn’t see the forest for the trees or whatever.”

Castiel slams the screen on his laptop closed, sinking into his claimed seat at the table with a dejected slump to his shoulders. “Or I’m completely useless as a writer and I should quit now before I embarrass myself further.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re not embarrassing. You got published, didn’t you? Repeatedly?”

“Yeah like three years ago. If I don’t manage to get this manuscript finished soon I wouldn’t be at all surprised if that’s the end of my publisher’s interest in me. And considering I need help to remember that altruism is a word, I’m pretty sure I’m royally fucked.”

Dean laughs, though he doesn’t intend to be mean. “Has anyone ever told you that you need to chill out sometimes?” he asks, probably crossing all sorts of lines, but hey, Castiel went there with him, so fair is fair.

“Has anyone ever told _you_ that you’re entirely insufferable?” Castiel snaps in reply.

“Not in those exact words,” Dean admits. “But once or twice, yeah. I’m also told I’m incredibly distracting.”

“I didn’t mean that as a compliment,” Castiel mutters.

“Wasn’t talking about you.”

“It’s bad enough you fixed my problem in like five seconds, now you’ve got to taunt me too? Can’t you just shut up?!”

“Why don’t you make me?” Dean taunts further, really not sure it’s the smartest idea but committing to it anyway. Before he even gets a chance to get a read on the situation, Castiel is out of his chair and in Dean’s space. There’s the briefest of moments where it feels like Castiel is gauging his response and likes what he sees, and then he’s kissing Dean, hot and intense, and it’s so fucking unexpected because Dean totally assumed this inappropriate lust thing was a one way street but wow was he wrong. Castiel is kissing him like it’s something he really, really wants to do, and he’s all kinds of good at it, and it occurs to Dean that he should maybe be a mouthy little shit more often if this is what it gets him.

“That was effective,” he murmurs breathily when Castiel lets him up for air.

“Clearly not,” Castiel growls, that deep voice even deeper than usual. One of his hands has worked its way around the back of Dean’s neck and is preventing him from backing away, not that he’s trying. “Since you’re still capable of running your mouth at me.”

“Guess you’d better try harder,” Dean offers, not at all chastised. Castiel takes him up on it.

That first kiss felt somewhat experimental, exploratory, like Castiel wasn’t sure what kind of involvement he was going to get from Dean, but now that Dean has pushed back and let him keep going, it’s kind of like a floodgate opening. He’s rough and aggressive in a way that erases any question Dean might have had about Castiel’s intentions here, and Dean for one is totally on board that train. He kisses back, trying to give as good as he gets, but Castiel is decidedly the one in control here. If any part of Dean wants to protest, that part is drowned out by the overwhelming majority, ‘cause it’s pushing a whole bunch of Dean’s buttons. Castiel’s hands, previously only known to Dean for their ceaseless typing and inability to prepare food, are now pawing roughly at Dean’s clothes. He practically tears Dean’s shirt off over his head, flinging it blindly behind him, then immediately goes to work on the shorts. Dean kicks his flip flops off and gropes at the body he’s been daydreaming about touching since he got to this damned cabin, running his palms over Cas’ chest. He’s firm, more well-muscled than Dean would have imagined seeing as he’s never actually seen Cas do anything except write and smoke weed and commit kitchen arson, but he must have some kinda routine going on back home, because he’s in great shape. His biceps flex as he grabs Dean’s shoulders and pushes him roughly backwards, giving no indication of where they’re headed. Dean doesn’t mind. As long as it’s not outside, he’ll go where he’s led.

“I’d really like to fuck you,” Castiel murmurs darkly, a question he doesn’t quite ask hidden in the statement.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “Yeah, that.”

“Think we’re gonna have to raincheck on that one though,” Cas tells him, almost like an apology. “Wasn’t exactly planning on getting laid up here. I’m sorely lacking in the condom department.”

“Well fortunately for us,” Dean informs him glibly, pushing his hands under the hem of Castiel’s shirt to get a feel for all the tanned skin underneath, “somebody’s brother was _zealously_ optimistic when stealth packing for this trip, so I have condoms and lube in my room.”

“Outstanding,” Castiel laughs. He spins Dean around and pushes him in the direction of the bedrooms, sending him off with a very firm and not entirely unwelcome smack to the ass for motivation. Dean trundles off, barefoot and shirtless, and being that Cas has already unbuttoned his shorts, drops them the second he gets to his room. The condoms and lube are right where he left them, undisturbed in a drawer on the dresser, so grabs them both and heads back into the hallway. Cas is standing there waiting for him, having shed all his clothes in the meantime, and Dean is so thoroughly distracted by the appealing sight of his thick cock hanging between his legs that he doesn’t even bother to protest when Cas grabs him by the hand and drags him bodily into the other bedroom.

Although the majority of his attention is on Cas and his very enticing nudity, Dean has enough presence of mind to notice that this bedroom is way better than his. For starters, there’s one big bed in the corner instead of a fuckin bunkbed, and it’s got more pillows on it than Dean has ever seen in one place in his entire life. At least 70% more pillows than are strictly called for, all covered in various shades of red, and the bedspread itself is a red and green plaid that Dean is fairly certain is the exact same pattern as at least one shirt he has back home. It looks soft and welcoming, and Dean doesn’t mind one bit when Cas pushes him forward, urging him none too gently to lay down. Urging is maybe the wrong word. He shoves Dean, making him sprawl awkwardly, and the way he climbs on afterwards is probably closer to a pounce than anything else.

Dean doesn’t remember the last time someone pursued him like this. He cannot, in recent memory, recall a time where someone made him feel this wanted, this desired, and that’s doing about as much to stoke the fire of lust in his belly as the actual physical contact. Not to downplay the contact at all, because damn he likes the way Cas touches him, all possessive and demanding, but the possessiveness itself is a whole other kind of hot.

Cas shoves Dean’s boxers down around his thighs and lets up just long enough to allow Dean to shimmy out of them, but then he’s all hands again. His palm is rough around Dean’s cock, squeezing tight as he tugs and strokes. Dean moans, the sounds swallowed up when Cas kisses him deeply, and he rocks his hips up to chase the delicious friction.

“You’re gorgeous,” Cas growls, retrieving the lube that Dean discarded when he sprawled on the bed. Soon there’s a single slick finger teasing at Dean’s hole, circling but not quite pushing in. Cas gives Dean enough time to get out a protest if he’s got one forming (he doesn’t), then slips just the tip of one finger past the tight ring of muscle. Dean lets out a groan, arching his back, desperate for more. Cas gives it to him little by little, working in until he’s plunging his finger into Dean’s ass, then two, then three, a little rough and just not quite enough, so that when he stops prepping Dean and goes for a condom, the anticipation is nearly killing him.

“You’re gorgeous,” Cas repeats, lining his cock up with Dean’s hole.

“Don’t gotta flatter me dude,” Dean assures him, his usual bravado covering up how truly desperate he is for it. “I’m pretty much a sure thing.” Castiel raises an eyebrow in challenge, but he’s wordless as he sinks in, quiet save for strained grunt when he fully seats himself, balls flush with Dean’s thighs. He pushes Dean’s knees up and drapes himself over so they’re face to face, and he’s kissing Dean right as he starts to thrust, and fuck is it good. Dean can count on one hand the number of times he’s gotten laid since he found himself single again, and none of those have been particularly memorable. This though, this is awesome. This is Cas, almost as tall as Dean and solidly built, bearing him down into the mattress and taking what he wants, all of it freely given. This is Castiel, the surly and irritable writer that Dean knows barely anything about, fucking Dean into the mattress like he’s something deeply desirable. It’s so not at all what he expected of this vacation, but damn, is it good.

All that intensity that Dean saw in Castiel before, the things Dean couldn’t even name except to say they intimidated him, they come to life in this moment. All the barely contained passion gets free rein, and he dedicates all of it to wringing Dean out, fucking him hard and fast and deep. Dean could easily believe Castiel is just as desperate as he is, just too long without a warm body to lay down with, and that’s what he tells himself this is, but some part of him feels like that’s not all that’s at work here. If he lets himself, he could begin to think that this is more than that, that Cas doesn’t just want _someone_ like this, he wants Dean like this, and that thought drives him more than just a little bit wild.

He’s coming before he knows it, every muscle in his body tensing as Cas pushes him over the edge, his vision nearly whiting out. It’s been too long since he’s had the opportunity for an orgasm at someone else’s hands, and it’s always so much better when someone else does it. Cas grins almost madly, pleased with the mess he’s made of Dean, and he just keeps on fucking until he’s done taking his pleasure. Dean doesn’t mind, not one bit. He’d be lying if he said otherwise. He kinda loves that Cas keeps going well after Dean has come, loves the feeling of Cas holding him down and fucking him even as his own dick goes soft. When Cas finally cries out  and stiffens above him, there’s something otherworldly in the sounds he makes, something Dean thinks he could hear again and again with no complaints, but he’s not about to announce that. This is angry sex, borne of an argument. Sex in the heat of a fight. Dean doesn’t believe for a second that it entitles him to any more of Castiel’s time, or to any more access to his body, but he really, honestly hopes that Castiel wants this to be more than a one-time thing. Even with his body still buzzing with the thrill of a good lay, he’s thinking about what they could do next time, what kind of trouble two men with this kind of lust could get into, and he’s sure a mind as creative as Castiel’s could come up with some excellent ideas too.

If he gets the chance to find out, this could end up being a pretty damn good vacation, all things considered.

“So you caught that fish this morning right? You’re making that for dinner?” Castiel asks, like he didn’t just blow Dean’s mind, like he doesn’t see how the landscape between them has been irrevocably changed.

“Yeah,” Dean replies, disheartened but certainly not about to announce it. “I figured I’d do that and maybe roast some potatoes.”

“Sounds awesome,” Castiel replies. “I’m starving.” He doesn’t make any move to extricate himself from the tangle of limbs though, so it’s not exactly a dismissal.

Dean will take what he can get.

~*~

Unsurprisingly, when dinner is done and the dishes cleaned up (with Castiel’s help, since apparently he’s not entirely incompetent in the kitchen, just where it pertains to food preparation,) Castiel rolls a joint and heads for the door. This time around, Dean follows without needling, and Castiel doesn’t even ask if Dean plans to partake before handing him the joint. Dean relishes the way it makes him feel, the heavy relaxation that settles into his limbs, the way his mind just kind of drifts and stops fighting with thoughts and knowledge and information. It’s freeing. He should probably be trying to relax like this more often.

They head back inside in companionable silence and watch a movie, something Dean doesn’t pay much attention to but giggles at anyway. He’s giggling at most things at this point in time, but Castiel apparently doesn’t mind. He certainly doesn’t complain, anyway. When the movie ends they’re both yawning, heavy and sinking in their seats, so it’s obviously time to sleep. Dean makes as if to head to his own bed, the bottom bunk in his little room off to the side, but Castiel hooks a finger through the belt loop on his shorts.

“That seems silly,” he announces. “I’ve already seen you naked. I don’t see why you should sleep in a stupid bunk bed if I’ve already seen you naked.”

Dean can’t parse the logical progression between those two statements, but he also can’t see any real reason to disagree, so he goes along willingly, letting Castiel kiss him and touch him and strip him of his clothes. They fall asleep dressed in only boxer shorts, lips kiss-bitten and red, Castiel tucked behind Dean with his arms wrapped loosely around his waist, and it doesn’t mean anything but Dean likes it anyway.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean wakes up when it’s still pitch black out, faint night sounds of the forest drifting in through the open window. Castiel is awake, sitting on the edge of the bed. He seems very, very alert.

“Cas?” Dean asks, realizing he’s not nearly acquainted enough with this man to be asking any kind of questions about what keeps him up at night, but motivated to do so anyway.

“Can’t sleep,” Castiel informs him. “I’m gonna go smoke another joint. Go back to sleep.”

“I’ll come with you,” Dean says, not sure if he plans to partake or just keep Cas company in the night. Either way, Cas doesn’t protest. The night air is still so warm, he doesn’t bother grabbing a shirt. Or pants for that matter. He follows Cas to the main room, stopping for a drink of water while Cas rolls another joint, and then treks out onto the veranda in just his boxers. Cas isn’t any more dressed, so it doesn’t feel out of place, and honestly he’s glad for the cool breeze off the lake as it gusts across his overheated skin. Summer is glorious in a lot of ways, but he could do without the oppressive heat.

The only light they have comes from the faint slivers of moonlight filtering through the trees, and that isn’t much considering it’s currently only a quarter moon, faint against the backdrop of the sky. Cas flicks his lighter, casting an orange glow for a moment, and then it’s just the ember at the end of his joint that shows Dean where to look.

“Nightmares?” Dean asks, not sure if he’s entitled to any kind of answer. At least, if Castiel wants to talk about it, he’ll know he’s invited to. Dean himself wouldn’t ever take up such an invitation, but he knows that’s what emotionally stable people do, so he’ll offer anyway. He gets the social conventions. He just doesn’t, like, _do_ them.

“Something like that,” Castiel replies.

“You gonna be okay?” He’s never been good at stuff like this. Barely knows the questions to ask, what it looks like to offer comfort. But they’re alone out here, just Dean and Castiel, and that means he’s gotta be the one.

“I don’t even know how to answer that,” Castiel tells him softly, a hollow laugh echoing through the night as he hands the joint over. “Might take me a while to get back to sleep, but yeah, like, I’m gonna live.”

Dean puffs off the joint, more for a reason to be out here than because he feels the need to get stoned at the moment. He could fall asleep again no problem, but if he’s smoking then he’s outside for a reason instead of just to keep Cas company, and then it’s not weird and awkward. “You wanna talk about it?” he asks, weirdly and awkwardly.

Castiel laughs, a harsh, choked sound, but he doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes the joint Dean hands back to him, inspecting it more closely than necessary before putting it to his lips, the orange glow of the ember casting dancing shadows on his face. “Thanks,” he replies after a moment, smoke chasing his words out, “but there isn’t really anything to talk about. Sometimes my brain is just an asshole and I gotta ride it out.”

“Sure thing,” Dean replies with a shrug. He’s definitely not about to start pushing anyone to open up. That’d be insanely hypocritical. “Just, if you need to, or whatever.” He’s not even quite sure what he’s trying to offer, but he guesses the sentiment probably translates even if the words are kinda wrong. He’s also not entirely sure why he cares, being that this is someone he met all of four days ago and will probably never see again after this trip.

“Thanks,” Cas says again, handing the joint back to Dean. They smoke in silence for a while, only bothering with wordless grunts to get the other’s attention when they pass the joint back and forth. Dean can’t tell if whatever is bothering Cas is fading, or if Cas is getting better at keeping it from affecting his outward demeanor, but by the time the joint is smoked down to a stub, the overwhelming sense of tension that’s permeated the air since Dean first woke up has dissipated to a manageable level.

Dopey and content, Dean grabs a glass of water from the kitchen, then pours one for Cas. Cas drinks it in one go, then sets the glass on the counter roughly, reaching for the unopened bottle of cheap scotch in the corner. He overpours by a long shot, then eyes Dean up, asking with a glance if Dean’s drinking too. And why not? He’s on vacation, and if nothing else, he can save Cas from having to drink alone. Whatever he’s hiding from, he could probably use companionship in that. Dean nods, handing his own empty glass over. Cas pours him two fingers as opposed to the huge glass he poured himself, and when Dean picks his up to take a sip, Cas downs his own glass in one gulp. Dean’s throat hurts just watching it. The cheap stuff burns so much (not that he personally ever buys anything but the cheap stuff). Dean kills his drink in one or two more reasonable sips, and before he can set the glass down, Cas is taking it from him, their fingertips brushing for a brief moment. The air catches in Dean’s throat as Cas steps into his space, breath hot as it ghosts across Dean’s lips, just enough of a pause for Dean to break the spell if he doesn’t want Cas like this, and they’re kissing, all at once soft and passionate in a way that feels exactly right for whatever o’clock in the morning when all the world is asleep. Castiel’s tongue sweeps out to catch the last drops of liquor on Dean’s lips, swallowing them down and making Dean shiver all the way to his toes, his hands gentle and coaxing against the skin just above Dean’s boxer shorts.

Castiel fades away from Dean’s lips slowly, dropping his mouth down to taste the skin of Dean’s throat. His pulse feels hot, right beneath the surface, and it only gets hotter as Castiel works him over with lips and teeth and tongue. Dean clings to him like nothing else, hazy with lust and smoke, and just this little bit of foreplay is enough to make his toes curl against the linoleum floor. He doesn’t remember moving, but he’s backed against the counter now, trapped between Castiel and chipped Formica and he lets go of Cas’ shoulders, one hand gripping the countertop, the other clutching the back of Cas’ neck like he’s worried he’ll go somewhere.

“Fuck,” Dean groans, voice breathy in the quiet of the night. “That feels…fuck.” He’s usually more articulate than this, even with his head in a fog of desire, but the weed is amplifying all of it, the pleasure and the distraction alike. If he had anywhere else to be, anything else to do, that might be annoying, but right now, he feels like Castiel knows what he means.

“I want,” Castiel says against Dean’s skin, his lips brushing against a nipple now as he speaks. He doesn’t finish the thought, or maybe he never meant to. Maybe that was a complete sentence. Dean doesn’t know. “I _want_ you.”

“Yeah Cas,” Dean assures him. “Whatever you want.” That’s a dangerous thing to say to someone he knows so little about, but it’s hard to make himself put a qualifier on what he knows is an open ended statement. He’d give Cas anything he wanted right now, pretty much anything at all. And he doesn’t exactly get the feeling that Cas has anything in mind that Dean isn’t going to enjoy the shit out of, anyway.

No forewarning whatsoever, Cas drops to his knees, dragging Dean’s boxers down with him, and the lips that were previously teasing him with light kisses now wrap around the fat head of his cock. Cas drags the tip of his tongue over Dean’s slit, pulling a deep groan out of Dean’s throat as he does, and Dean doesn’t want to bother holding on to the counter anymore. He’d much rather wind his fingers through the haphazard locks of Castiel’s hair, grip him tight and guide him to where it feels best. Cas hums, pleasure or amusement or assent, Dean doesn’t know, but he slides in closer until most of Dean’s cock is sheathed in the heat of his mouth, and then it’s all Dean can do to hold on for dear life.

Cas’ mouth is amazing. He’s got skill, that’s for sure, but he’s also so fucking into it that even if he didn’t, this would probably be a mind-blowing blowjob. He’s still kinda slow and languorous, just like everything leading up to this, but there’s a bit of intensity to it that’s reminiscent of the kind Dean saw in Cas’ eyes a few days ago, the kind that scared him. Castiel could take him apart and put him back together, Dean figures, and enjoy every second of it. He’s not really sure if that’s terrifying or hot as hell. He’ll have to think more on that later, when he’s capable of using his brain for anything more complicated than breathing. Cas swallows him down as deep as he’ll go, nose brushing against the hair nestled between Dean’s legs, and he nearly comes right then and there.

“Not yet,” Cas growls as he pulls his lips off of Dean’s dick, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He kisses Dean again, Deep and messy, and Dean can taste himself in it. “Bedroom.” He steps back to allow Dean the freedom to move, but he’s right in Dean’s space again when he does, following close behind. Dean’s already naked, so he sprawls himself out on the bed and watches in delight as Cas steps out of his boxers, the faint light from the kitchen illuminating him as he reveals himself. Dean’s mouth waters; he kinda wants to return the favor, get his mouth on Cas’ cock and see what kind of noises he makes, but Castiel has something else in mind. Instead, he grabs the lube and a condom from the bedside table and kneels on the bed. Dean thinks the lube is coming for him and spreads his legs, welcoming Cas’ touch, but Cas just laughs and reaches behind himself, breath catching as he works fingers into his own hole. His free hand grasps Dean’s thigh, a little comforting and a little possessive, and Dean just watches, unsure what to do with his own hands as Cas opens himself up for Dean’s cock. It’s a pretty sight. His head lolls forward, chin dropping to his chest, and it’s too dark to see for sure but Dean’s pretty sure there’s a flush of pink across his chest. He’s fast and perfunctory, not lingering like he did with Dean, and before long he’s rolling a condom onto Dean’s cock, straddling his thighs to get it lined up. Dean holds his breath as Cas sinks down, not even sure if he’s doing it intentionally, and he doesn’t breathe out until Cas has taken him all the way in, sitting flush against Dean’s thighs, his hard cock resting against Dean’s belly.

Dean grips Cas’ thighs, head spinning with the intensity of it, and waits long moments for Cas to decide he’s ready to start moving. It feels like forever, though it’s probably only a minute or two, and then Cas starts to roll his hips experimentally, getting a feel for how Dean’s body responds to him, how his own body responds to Dean. He barely makes a sound, just harsh breaths and the occasional gasp, and Dean can do nothing but stare. He is beautiful, absolutely beautiful, fucking himself on Dean’s cock, and he can’t think of a single thing he could be doing that would make it any better, so he lets Cas have all the control.

When Cas finds a rhythm he’s happy with, his hands start to move, caressing over his own body, touching wherever he wants Dean’s attention. His fingertips tweak nipples and ghost across his collarbone, tempting Dean to imagine putting his mouth there. He skims over his thighs, daring Dean to grip him tighter so he can thrust up. And Dean wants, oh god how he wants, but something tells him that Cas needs the control right now, for whatever kept him awake tonight, so he doesn’t move. He lets Cas use his body however he needs to, and there is more than enough pleasure in that for Dean.

Finally, Cas’ hands stop their taunting, and he moves to grip his own dick in a loose fist, jacking it casually like his orgasm doesn’t even matter. He meets Dean’s eyes, barely visible in the low light of the room, but Dean can _feel_ the intensity of Cas’ gaze on him and it nearly undoes him. His fingers tighten on Cas’ thighs, and that seems to be exactly what Cas was going for because he laughs darkly, a very faint sound that is music to Dean’s ears, and he picks up the pace. His hand works quickly, stroking his cock with more fervor, and there’s a very noticeable change in the rhythm of his hips. Dean can feel him starting to falter, can hear his breathing going ragged, and it’s not long after that he feels the sticky wetness of Cas’ orgasm dripping from his fingers onto Deans’ abdomen. Cas slows but doesn’t stop, riding Dean as he shudders through his own orgasm, chasing Dean’s release like it’s the real goal here. He must be exhausted, oversensitive, but he doesn’t stop until Dean goes stiff and moans out his name in pleasure. Then, he collapses forward, smearing come between their bellies, and kisses Dean until they’re breathless and heady.

Cas rolls off of Dean, his feet hitting the floor soundlessly. He grabs someone’s boxers, no telling whose in the dark of the room, and cleans them both up half-assedly before flopping back onto the bed. Dean treads to the bathroom on nearly silent feet to discard the condom. When he comes back, Cas looks like he’s already asleep, but when Dean crawls into bed he wraps himself around, forcing Dean into the little spoon position. Dean isn’t sure who falls asleep first, but he’s fairly sure whoever goes second is close behind.

~*~

Cas is already at his computer when Dean hauls himself out of bed around ten. He feels guilty about sleeping so late for about four seconds, and then he remembers he’s on vacation and that’s kinda what you’re supposed to do, so he lets himself off the hook. Cas actually looks up from his computer this time, grinning broadly and nodding when Dean asks if he needs a refill on coffee, no trace of the stress that plagued him in the middle of the night anywhere to be seen. Dean shrugs it off. Not like he has any other options.

~*~

It is well before seven when Castiel closes his laptop for the day. Dean doesn’t even realize he’s stopped writing until he saunters into the kitchen to peer over Dean’s shoulder.

“What’s for dinner?” Cas asks, his voice startling and unexpected in Dean’s ear.

“Jesus, don’t do that! I got a fuckin blade in my hand dude. We need to put a bell on you or something.”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Cas answers wryly.

“I’m putting the last of those steaks on the grill,” Dean informs him, “plus I’ve got skewers of mushrooms and peppers to go with ‘em.”

“Sounds great. I’m starving.”

“Cutting out of work early?” Dean asks. There’s really not much prep to do, but he likes cooking, so he’s been puttering around in the kitchen for a while now. The steaks have been resting on the counter for about an hour, nearly up to room temperature, and he’s soaked the wooden skewers for the vegetables so they don’t go up in flames when he puts them on the grill. The mushrooms are scrubbed clean and the peppers are cut into chunks and it all took him less than ten minutes of actual work but he managed to stretch it to nearly fifty.

Cas shrugs. “I’ve been staring at the same thing in this chapter for most of the day. It’s not coming to me. I need to go away from it and think about something else for a while. So I’m playing hooky.”

“You rebel,” Dean teases. He throws some salt and pepper on the steaks, all the seasoning they really need, then hands the plate of vegetable skewers to Cas. “Come on. You may be useless in a kitchen but you can at least help me carry things.” He takes off for the front door without waiting for Cas to reply, but sure enough, he’s right behind.

“I’m not useless,” Castiel protests weakly.

“Just in the kitchen,” Dean corrects him. “You’re awesome at lots of other things.”

“I don’t know about lots…”

“You’re awesome at a few specific things I can think of,” Dean replies, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. Cas rolls his eyes. “And I’m sure you’re just fine at a bunch of other things that have nothing to do with preparing food. But you know, you could still learn. It’s not exactly super complicated. You just need someone to show you the ropes. “

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Castiel drops into one of the chairs on the veranda, then immediately gets back up and walks inside. Dean’s confused for a moment until he returns with two of Dean’s beers from the fridge. Dean should be annoyed that he helped himself without asking but he’s really not, mostly because he brought Dean one too but also because he’s kinda starting to enjoy Castiel’s company, even when they’ve got all their clothes on, and he doesn’t mind sharing with people he likes.

“Thanks,” Dean says, taking the beer and setting it down on the side of the grill. “So how do you take your steak?”

“Rare,” Castiel answers instantly. “Like, really rare. Not quite raw but pretty damn close.”

“I can deal with that,” Dean laughs. “I was afraid you were gonna say well-done for a minute there and then I’d have to mock you forever.”

Castiel scrunches up his face. “Ugh, god no. Just because I burn everything I try to cook doesn’t mean I like it that way.”

“I still don’t understand how you never learned to do even the basics,” Dean teases.

“Never really had to take care of myself,” Castiel explains kinda hesitantly. “My mom stayed home to raise me and my brother so she was always cooking, even after we were old enough not to need her at home all day. And then when I graduated high school, I went to college in town so I didn’t move out to a dorm or a place of my own, and she kept cooking. I didn’t move out at all until after I published my first book, and at that point I just kinda started doing takeout and sandwiches all the time, basically.”

Dean nods, focused on the grill. It’s just about perfect, so he gets the vegetables on first since they’ll take much more time than the steaks will, especially since Cas wants his so rare. “Well, I like cooking, so I don’t mind keeping up with that while we’re here if you don’t mind eating my cooking.”

“Haven’t made me anything terrible yet,” Castiel says. “So what’s your story?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well like, you’re out here ‘cause you’re stressed out. That’s pretty much all I know about you. That and you’re not 100% straight.”

“And I can cook,” Dean replies.

“And you can cook.”

“Uh, well, I don’t know. Not much of a story. I restore cars. My brother thinks I work too much. I learned to cook ‘cause I like food.” Dean shrugs, giving the veggie skewers turn. Talking about himself makes him uncomfortable. It feels like bragging.

“Does your brother think you work too much because you, I don’t know, _work too much_?” Cas presses.

“What is this, twenty questions?”

Cas smirks at him. “You afraid I’m gonna find out all your deepest, darkest secrets?”

“Something like that,” Dean mumbles.

“Quid pro quo,” Cas offers, regarding Dean with interest. “That means _this for that._ ”

“I know what quid pro quo means, ass.”

“Great, then I don’t have to explain the rules. And you can refuse to answer, but then you have to take a shot.” Cas beams at him, clearly proud of his machinations.

“I can’t tell if you’re trying to get inside my head, or just trick me into getting drunk.”

“Can’t it be both?” Cas replies slyly.

“Go get plates and cutlery from the kitchen,” Dean commands, not bothering to respond to the taunting. It’s probably dangerous to let Cas get under his skin like this, but whatever. He’s still out here for more than a week with no one else to talk to. He might as well keep it interesting.

“And whiskey,” Castiel adds.

“You planning on going for the hard questions right away?”

“Hey, I have no idea what you’ll refuse to answer. For that matter, you have no idea what _I’ll_ refuse to answer.” And just like that, he’s gone into the house, leaving Dean to wonder what the hell he’s gotten himself into.

~*~

Not a heck of a lot, as it turns out. Or at least, not at first. Over dinner (which Castiel professes to be a perfectly cooked steak, possibly honestly or possibly just to stroke Dean’s ego), they keep the conversation mostly to basic stuff. Castiel has one brother, four years older, just like the age difference between Sam and Dean, except his asshole parents named the poor kid Balthazar. Dad did something with money, Castiel was vague about what, but it was enough to set the family up more than comfortably and send the kids to college without having to work or take out loans, so Castiel has never had a _real_ job in his life (his own words). He went right from college (English major) to writing his first novel, was lucky (or connected) enough to get it published not too long after, and has kinda just coasted on family money and the profits from his books since. He asks similar questions about Dean’s family, though he does take note of how Dean doesn’t volunteer more than basics about his parents, both deceased, and very kindly doesn’t ask any further questions about that.

All things considered, it’s a pretty tame conversation, and Dean starts to believe that all Cas’ bluster is exactly that; just bluster. But once the steaks are finished and the dishes transported back to the kitchen, he catches Castiel eyeing up the bottle of whiskey like he’s wondering what it’ll take to make Dean take a shot instead of answering, and he can practically see the wheels turning.

“What would you say is your craziest sexual encounter?” Castiel asks, his tone so blasé that it’s obviously affected. This isn’t some casual throwaway question. He’s trying to push Dean now, to see where his limits are and what’s a step too far. He’s not disinterested; he’s hanging on every word.

Dean pauses, considering. There’s a lot of answers he could give, stories exciting enough that Castiel would probably never wonder if it’s actually the craziest or if he’s just holding back. He could talk about the twins. That one’s always a good story at a party, when he’s with a rowdy group and he needs to puff up his chest a little, but Cas isn’t questioning his masculinity or his prowess here, so that might not be the best answer to the question. He could talk about the girl with the Zorro mask, the one who liked to slap him, and liked that Dean liked it, but that might come off like he’s inviting Castiel to start roughing him up a little, and he’s not sure that’s somewhere he wants to go with someone he’s not going to see after next week. Not that he’d say no to Castiel getting a bit handsy, not in the slightest. But there’s something decidedly not temporary about letting someone smack him around in the bedroom, and he doesn’t really want to put that on the table right now, even in theory. No, he knows the story he should tell. Castiel isn’t just asking to get a rise out of Dean. He wants to learn about him. He wants Dean’s story. So when he asked for Dean’s craziest story, what really meant to do is to find out what Dean thinks is crazy, and also maybe to get a glimpse at something that says more about Dean than what’s on the surface of the tale.

“Rhonda Hurley,” Dean offers proudly, pausing for effect. “We were, uh, nineteen. She made me try on her panties. They were pink, and satiny, and you know what? I kinda liked it.” Castiel stares at him, expression unreadable. Whatever he was expecting to hear, it wasn’t this. Dean wonders what conclusions he’s drawing from this short little tale, but he doesn’t volunteer any observations. Instead, he just takes a slow sip of his beer, then grins at Dean.

“Is that the only time you’ve worn anything like that?” He asks, with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

“Hey, you got your answer. It’s my turn,” Dean replies, knowing full well that Castiel is just going to revisit the subject in a few minutes when the tables turn again. Cas spreads his hands in a gesture of graceful acceptance but he’s still grinning. Dean throws out the first question that comes to mind, since his only motivation in not answering Castiel’s follow up inquiry was to maintain the illusion that they’re adhering to some kind of rule structure here. He doesn’t care, and he’s definitely going to answer Cas but like, if the game starts decaying now he can see it very quickly becoming a barrage of questions lobbed at Dean until Cas can pry back the layers and see what makes him tick. And he’s nowhere near drunk enough for that, nor does he plan to be.

“What’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told?” He asks, his nonchalance much more real than Castiel’s.

Castiel snorts. “That’s a loaded fuckin’ question,” he shoots back, shifting in his chair, and Dean can’t tell if he’s uncomfortable or simply adjusting his position.

“You taking a shot then?” Dean asks, reaching for the bottle of whiskey. He knows he’s taunting Cas right now, but fair is fair.

“No.” The answer is firm, resolute. He will not back down from this challenge. He’s quiet for a moment, contemplative, cocking his head to the side like he does when he’s peering at Dean and trying to sort out his secrets. “The biggest lie I ever told…I told my parents I was happy.” And then he reaches for his beer like he didn’t just drop a bombshell, like that doesn’t require _so_ much more explanation.

“You can’t just leave it at that,” Dean presses. “What the hell does that mean?” Dean thinks he knows. He thinks he has a damn good idea, but damn. This is not the course he thought this game would take.

“Hey, you got your answer. It’s my turn,” Cas replies, his tone mocking as he throws Dean’s own words back at him. Dean glares, but he can’t argue, so he nods. Cas doesn’t miss a beat. “So tell me more about this pink satin panties thing. Do you ever wear anything like that now?”

To Dean’s credit, he doesn’t even blush. He’s had a few minutes to get himself prepared to answer this question, and he can be fucking stoic when the moment calls for it. “I mean, sometimes? Like, it’s not a regular thing and I sure as fuck don’t have any with me, but yeah I’ve got a few pairs. Pull ‘em out for special occasions or whatever. I dunno. They make me feel…”

“Beautiful,” Cas supplies, finishing the thought Dean couldn’t quite put into words. “They make you feel beautiful.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, feeling his face flush in a way he thought he’d escaped.

“It’s a pity you don’t have any here with you,” Cas says with a sigh. “I bet that’s somethin’ else entirely.”

“Shut up,” Dean grouses. “Now you’re just makin’ fun.”

“Am not,” Cas assures him. “I’m being entirely honest. I can only just imagine what you look like in nothing but a scrap of pink satin. It’s a really nice mental image. I just wish I could see the real thing.”

“Anyway,” Dean interjects, changing the subject in the least subtle way possible. “Tell me more about this lie.” It’s one thing to admit that he gets a little hot and bothered over a bit of satin and lace, but he’s not 100% comfortable with this level of discussion over it. He rarely wears them around anyone else. They’re mostly for himself, when he’s alone and needs something to make himself feel good. Lisa only got to see him in them once or twice, and she never made fun but she also didn’t quite get it, so the magic wasn’t really there. The idea that Cas might comprehend what they do for Dean and be on board with it is just a bit overwhelming. He’s known the guy for what, five days? That’s a whole other level.

“My mom,” Cas answers somewhat wistfully. “She worries. Moms tend to do that, you know? But like, she doesn’t really want honesty. She doesn’t ask because she wants to know what’s wrong and help you fix it, she just wants confirmation that nothing’s wrong. So about a year ago, I’m working on this novel except I’m really not, and it’s not going anywhere good. I’m stressed, and I’m terrified I’m going to fuck this up. So when I see her for dinner, she notices how haggard I look and she asks. And I can’t tell her I’m afraid I’ve made a terrible mistake and my entire life is in shambles and I’m worried I’ll never write anything worth publishing again. So I tell her it’s a labour of love, and that I’m tired but happy, and that she has nothing to worry about. And it’s what she wants to hear, so she believes it and doesn’t ask any more questions, and I don’t have to feel guilty about making my mom sad.”

“Jesus,” Dean breathes. The air feels punched out of his lungs. “You still feel like that?”

Cas just laughs. It’s not entirely comforting.

The banter gets a little lighter from there on out. They talk about ex-girlfriends and ex-boyfriends, and Cas offers up some frankly intriguing anecdotes about an orgy he attended one summer. There’s conversation about some of the shitty part-time jobs Dean had while putting himself through school, about the prank wars he and Sam used to have as kids (and also as adults), and as the sun starts to make its way towards the horizon and the day’s heat starts to fade, Dean finds himself feeling inexplicably comfortable in Cas’ company.

“So why are you here?” Cas asks on his next turn, breaking all that calm comfort.

“You’re gonna have to expand on that a little,” Dean shoots back casually.

“Here. At this cabin. You said your brother sent you into exile because you’re too stressed out, but you haven’t said a single word about why you’re stressed. I want that story.”

“It’s not important,” Dean replies coldly.

“Yeah it is,” Cas tells him, his voice softening. Dean reaches for the bottle of whiskey, his refusal to answer clear in the act, but Cas lays a hand on his wrist and prevents him from picking it up. “This isn’t for me,” he explains. “It’s for you. I think you need to get it off your chest.” Dean stares flatly back, his eyes a challenge, but Castiel just meets his eyes, unmoved. Finally, he withdraws his hand. Dean picks up the bottle.

“I’m still gonna answer you,” he tells Cas woodenly, twisting off the cap. “But I definitely need a drink.” And just to prove that point, he takes a swig right from the bottle, the cheap whiskey burning his throat on the way down. He barely supresses a shudder that tries to run through his body.

“That’s fair,” Cas replies carefully, his eyes inquisitive. He opens his mouth to speak again. Dean can almost imagine he’s going to retract the question, tell Dean he doesn’t have to talk about anything he doesn’t want to, but he’s already made the decision. He’s been carrying all this shit for a long-ass time now and besides, he’s _tired._ He doesn’t want to drag it around anymore. He’d rather not have to actually tell anyone about it; it would be preferable if they could just, you know, _know._ Dean almost wishes he was Vulcan instead of Human so he could press fingertips strategically to Cas’ temples and just…give him the knowledge. Way easier than talking about his shit. Before Cas can say whatever it is he was going to say, Dean starts spilling.

“There was this girl,” he begins. “She was, well, I don’t know if she was actually the one, but I convinced myself she was. We had this apple pie life, picket fence, a kid – not mine, hers from before, but Ben was a great kid and I coulda been proud to raise him. The whole package deal. Anyway, we were together for a couple years and things were pretty good, except as you may have noticed I am basically impossible to live with and I kinda drove her off. And the thing is, I didn’t even see it coming. I probably should have. If I was paying attention at all I would have. But I didn’t, and by the time she lost her patience with me it was too late to fix it. So here I am, mid-thirties, totally convinced I’m done dating for the rest of my life and I never gotta be lonely again, and I realize I fucked it up real bad. And that was just…it was way too much to deal with so I just didn’t. I pretended it wasn’t there. I spent all my time at the garage, worked myself until I was too tired to think about sweet fuck-all, and just avoided everything. Figured I’d just eventually like, move past it or whatever, but as usual, Sam is way smarter than me and he figured out what I was doing even though I shut him out too. So that’s why I’m here. ‘Cause if Sam exiles me to a cabin for two weeks I got no choice but to deal with this shit.”

As an excuse not to see how Cas looks at him after that revelation, Dean takes another drink. It doesn’t burn any less than the first one, but Dean’s ready for it now, so he takes it with a bit more dignity.

“Did you really think it was going to fix itself if you just ignored it long enough?” Castiel asks quietly. Dean looks up, expecting to be met with derision or pity or something equally unpalatable, but there’s none of that on Cas’ face. If anything, Dean would call it compassion. Empathy? He’s not sure how to read it, but it doesn’t make his skin crawl so that’s a decent improvement over what he anticipated.

“Not really. But hell if I wanted to actually face any of it.”

“Well sure,” Cas says with a laugh. “Nobody _wants_ to feel like shit. But sometimes you can’t get around it. You just gotta go through it.”

“Easier said than done,” Dean counters.

“Never said it was easy. Just said that’s the way to do it. Look, why did she leave?”

“We’re doing follow up questions now?” Dean asks, walls going back up. If he can lean into the rules of this little game they’re playing then maybe he can get out of talking about _feelings_ any more than he actually has to. Even as he tells himself that, it’s clear that he’s not going to get off so easy.

“This seems a bit more important right now, don’t you think?” Cas raises an eyebrow, challenging, and it makes Dean kinda weak in the knees, so he just nods. “Then maybe we should see where this conversation goes. We can get back to talking about me later. I promise. I’m an arrogant prick. I _love_ talking about myself. We’ll get back there.”

Dean allows himself a half-smile at Cas’ self-deprecation, then steels himself. “She left because, (and I’m paraphrasing here but you get the idea), I’m emotionally unavailable, surly and moody, kind of a dick when I’m pissed off, and not really interested in doing anything about any of those things.”

“And do you disagree?”

Dean shakes his head, laughing ruefully. “She’s got my number,” he replies.

“You wanna know what I think?” Cas asks. Dean shrugs. He doesn’t really care either way. He used up all his fucks just sharing the information in the first place. “I think sometimes you gotta fuck up before you can actually learn how to do things right. I think it’s really rare for people to end up in a happy relationship without ever being in one that fails miserably, because it’s real easy to convince yourself everything is good when you’ve never known what bad looks like, but once you’ve had an ugly end you start asking yourself the hard questions before it’s too late. And I think that being single in your thirties doesn’t mean shit. You got some stuff you gotta sort out before you’re gonna be able to be any good to yourself or anyone else in a relationship, but you also got a lot of good years ahead of you. You’ll survive this.”

“You sure about that?” Dean asks, opting for glib to hide his fear.

“I gotta be,” Cas tells him. “Cause you ain’t much younger than I am, and I’ve probably chased away just as many chances at happiness for equally stupid reasons, so if there’s no hope for you then I’m royally fucked.”

Dean raises the bottle of whiskey, though Cas has nothing to toast him with. “Here’s to getting fucked instead of _being_ fucked, then.” He takes a swig and hands it over, and Cas does the same before capping the bottle and setting it on the deck. He moves smoothly, fluid and swift, escaping his own chair and joining Dean in his, straddling his lap. It’s lucky these are sturdy wooden things rather than collapsible camp chairs like Dean is used to having on his tiny patio at home, or it would never hold the weight of the two of them. He kisses Dean, his mouth sweet with the taste of whiskey.

“That wasn’t…I didn’t mean…” Dean scrambles for words, suddenly feeling like he’s been too needy, like Cas thought he was asking for it instead of making a pun. Not that he’s not interested. He’s definitely interested. He’s also got issues asking for what he wants, so it ties him up inside thinking Cas believes that was a come-on.

“I know,” Cas says, his lips so close to Dean’s that he can feel the breath of every syllable. “But I just made you talk about stuff you had no desire to deal with, and now your brain’s all busy. Lemme distract you, just for a bit. This will still be there later.”

“I thought you were an arrogant prick who loves talking about himself?” Dean teases, already pushing his hands up under the back of Cas’ shirt. He’s still sun-warm under Dean’s fingertips even though it’s nearly dusk, and it’s soothing to let his hands play across Cas’ skin.

“I am, but I think my mouth is gonna be too busy sucking your cock to do much talking,” he admits. “We’ll have to come back to that.” And then he’s kissing Dean again, like he means it, swallowing up Dean’s moans. He works a hand between them to battle with Dean’s shorts, getting caught up with the button but making short work of the zipper. His hand is firm but gentle when it wraps around Dean’s cock, still mostly soft inside his boxers, but it doesn’t take long for Cas to get him hard. Dean’s used to taking the lead, or at least being expected to, but the way Cas gets pushy, decides what he wants and goes for it, that does things to Dean he’s forgotten to even fantasize about until now, and it’s good. So good. Cas gives him one more kiss, wet and filthy as he thumbs over the head of Dean’s cock, then climbs out of Dean’s lap with surprising grace to drop to his knees on the deck.

“Right here?” Dean blurts out in surprise. Cas tugs his shorts and boxers down far enough to get at his cock and balls, stroking and squeezing in a way that makes Dean bite his lip and sigh with pleasure.

“Who’s gonna see us, Dean? We haven’t encountered a single other human being since we got here. No one is gonna show up, not now, not for days from now. We might as well be the only people in the entire state for all it matters.” He doesn’t even wait for Dean to acknowledge the logic in that before taking the head of Dean’s cock in his mouth, spit-slick lips sliding easily down his shaft until nearly the whole length disappears inside. Dean groans as Cas works his tongue along the underside, and all the protest he had lined up is gone. Cas is right; no one is going to see them here, and even if they were, Dean no longer cares. His entire world is narrowed down to the sensation of Cas sucking his cock, and the gorgeous imagery he’s gifted with when he bothers to open his eyes.

Cas looks absolutely amazing down on his knees, the neckline of his faded grey t-shirt stretched out enough that it gives Dean more than a hint of skin. His hair is a mess as usual, and Dean messes it up further by grabbing a handful, not to hold Cas in place or direct him, just to keep them connected. Cas hums when Dean touches him, keeps bobbing his head and working his tongue, and goddamn is he good at it. Dean’s had his fair share of oral sex in his day, but Cas is definitely somewhere near the top of the list. He almost doesn’t want it to end, but it’s only a matter of time. It’s just too much pleasure to resist for long. It’s wet and messy, and before long Dean’s barely able to keep himself from thrusting. Cas must feel him struggling with it though, because he backs off just a little to give Dean room to move, and Dean starts to work his hips in small circles, fucking up into Cas’ mouth. Cas groans like he’s enjoying this just as much as Dean is, the noise sending little vibrations through Dean’s cock, and just as Dean opens his mouth to warn Cas that he’s close in case he wants to pull off, Cas works his hand between Dean’s thighs to tease at his entrance. He doesn’t push in, just circles around the rim, but it’s exactly what Dean needed.

“Fuck, Cas,” he warns, his voice low and rough, “gonna come. Fuck.”  That’s all he can manage to get out, but it’s enough to get his point across, and instead of pulling off, Cas sinks down, taking Dean as deep as he can, and Dean comes surrounded by the molten heat of his mouth.  It’s amazing. It’s perfect. It is exactly what he needed.

Dean regains awareness of the world around him as Cas climbs up off his knees, tucking Dean’s softening cock back into his boxers. He straddles Dean’s lap again, his own cock hard where their bodies meet, and he kisses the taste of Dean’s orgasm onto his lips. Dean clings to him wearily, wrung out and happy.

“Let me,” he breathes, reaching for Cas’ cock between them.  Cas shakes his head, batting him away.

“Later,” he promises. “When we go to bed. You can blow me, or I can fuck you, or whatever.”

“You sure?” Dean presses.

“Positive,” Cas assures him. “Let’s go inside. It’ll be dark soon. You can make me hot chocolate.” Dean fails to see what those two things have in common, but he’s hardly about to protest. The way he needs to lean on Cas to get out of the chair and into the cabin though, it’s gonna be a few minutes before he’s going to be able to do much in the way of cooking.


	8. Chapter 8

It’s a weird dynamic they have going on. Dean is consciously aware of this. It’s weird to be this comfortably domestic with someone he met just over a week ago, is spending time with unexpectedly, and doesn’t have plans to see again after this trip is over, but there it is. They are weirdly, comfortably domestic, and the weirdest part is it doesn’t feel weird at all. Oh sure, it was weird and awkward at the beginning. Didn’t click at all. Barely tolerated each other. But that’s all changed, and Dean can’t tell if it was gradual and he just wasn’t paying close enough attention or if changed all at once. Dean cooks and reads and fishes and sunbathes, and Cas writes and eats and rolls joints, and at night (and sometimes in the middle of the day) they make each other forget all about the stresses that sent them to this cabin in the first place. Cas seems to be making good progress on his novel, if the decreased number of times he slams his laptop closed in frustration are any indication. He won’t let Dean read any of it, understandably, but he seems less pissed off at it, so that’s a start. And Dean might not be willing to talk too much more about the Lisa thing, but he’s definitely doing some thinking on the subject, and that’s a marked improvement over the way he had his head buried in the sand the whole time leading up to this unexpected vacation.

At this particular moment, nearly four days after the somewhat eventful evening in which he told Cas about the whole ordeal, he’s sitting on the dock with a beer in hand, completely failing to read the Carver Edlund book in his hand. He made it through a few chapters, but unlike the others, which have been terrible but kind of enjoyable, this one is just damned unreadable. It seems to be centered around some kind of plague of bugs afflicting a small town, and he just can’t get into it. So rather than forcing himself to try, he’s letting his mind wander and for once, enjoying not having anything to do.

His mind drifts, predictably, to the fact that he’s going to be headed home in a few days. He’s only actually aware of what day it even is because of the calendar on his phone, but that calendar tells him they’ve been here for nine days now, which means there’s only four left, and then on the fifth morning, Sam will be here. As much as he resented being shuttled off to sit in a cabin and think about his life, he’s grown to enjoy it here. The lake itself is gorgeous, even if it’s full of way too much bird crap for Dean to want to put his feet in let alone take a swim, and being removed from civilization means he doesn’t have to give a crap what anyone else thinks. Between Cas’ frozen stuff and the food Sam packed that didn’t require quick consumption they’ve still got plenty of food to last the remainder of the trip, so he’s eating well. And though he’d be loath to admit it, having Cas’ company has actually slowed the rate at which the beer has dwindled, because Dean would be much more likely to have had one too many if there weren’t someone here to talk to. It’s not even that he felt like Cas would have judged him for it, it’s just that hanging out with Cas was something to do other than getting drunk on his own, so he did that instead.

It’s possible Sam didn’t think that particular angle through thoroughly enough when he planned to send Dean up here alone, but apparently, it worked out for the best.

And, most surprisingly of all, he’s really, really enjoying spending time with Cas. Not just the sex part, although that’s pretty awesome, but once they got over the whole going for each other’s throats thing in the first couple of days, they actually get along pretty well. Cas is perfectly happy to tell Dean when he’s being an idiot about something, and he’s equally likely to call Dean out when he’s not giving himself enough credit. And while Cas won’t let Dean read any of his book, he’s quite open to discussing some of the themes he’s covering in it, and there have been at least a couple of instances where he’s paused thoughtfully after Dean shared his opinion on something, held up a finger in a request to halt the conversation, and run over to his laptop to jot down notes. He hasn’t been forthcoming with details, but Dean gets the feeling that he’s actually contributing to the shape of Cas’ novel, and that’s kind of amazing.

It’s nice having someone he can actually talk to. Sam would listen, of course. He’s been begging Dean to talk about shit since long before the Lisa thing happened. But he’d also weigh in, and he’s someone that Dean’s gonna keep seeing on a regular basis, so any time he admits something he knows he’s gonna have to deal with it impacting the way Sam sees him in future. Cas is just some guy he’s stuck in a cabin with. It doesn’t matter what he thinks of Dean, because in a few days, they’re going to walk out of each other’s lives and never speak again.

The relaxed mood Dean had when he started down this train of thought is suddenly gone, and he’s done enough soul searching over the past week to know better than to pretend he doesn’t know why. He knows exactly why, but he ain’t gonna say it out loud. Inside his own brain is a different matter though, ‘cause he’s gotta admit it before he can inform himself of how fucking stupid he is. Really though, like what the hell Dean? It’s one thing to find a sense of camaraderie in the only person around for miles. That’s understandable. But the entire reason he’s in this position is because he’s not capable of processing his feelings like a functional adult and has therefore singlehandedly destroyed his last romantic relationship, and he’s gotta go form _feelings_ for Castiel?

That’s some utter bullshit, is what it is.

And like, Dean might be slightly more capable of handling his emotions now than he was when he got to this cabin, but he’s still at his core the same man. So it doesn’t take long for him to decide how he’s gonna approach this. He’s not going to tell Castiel how he feels and try to have a conversation about it. He’s not going to analyze it. He’s going to repress that shit like crazy, pretend it’s just sex and companionship, and go back to his normal life like this never happened.

Dean knows himself well enough to know exactly how well that’s gonna work out, but hell if he’s not a one trick pony. He’s gonna do it anyway.

~*~

The next four days are an odd blur of stillness. They fly by so fast Dean can barely keep track, but they are also slow and quiet and lazy. He skims the stupid book about bugs and then moves on to the next one, wondering the whole while if it’s actually his favourite in the series so far or just so much better than the last one by comparison that it just _feels_ like his favourite. He takes some naps, makes some rather involved meals, relearns how to roll a joint, and has a whole lot of really amazing sex. And the whole time, through the cooking and the sex and the socializing and the times he’s on his own, he tries his damnedest to convince himself that there aren’t feelings at stake. He tries to let it all go and be normal, and he really ought to know better by now. You can force yourself to be something you’re not for a very short period of time, but the truth always wins out in the end.

When Dean wakes up on the last day, the day Sam comes to drive him home, Cas is still in bed. Usually he’s awake writing, unless Dean is up early enough to go fishing. Today he is not for whatever reason, and so it’s really the first time he’s got to be lazy in bed with Cas. He kinda likes it, the way Cas’ face relaxes in sleep, the permanent scowl almost completely gone from his features. He doesn’t snore, but he does make these incredibly endearing snuffling sounds, and when Dean tries to roll himself away, Cas’ arm tightens around his waist and won’t let go, so he’s kinda stuck there.

“Where’re you going?” Cas mumbles drowsily, eyes still firmly closed.

_Home_ , Dean thinks. “Coffee,” he says instead.

“Ugh but it’s like four am or something.”

“It’s not,” Dean informs him. “It is nearly nine.”

“Fuck that,” Cas grumbles, but he does loosen his stranglehold on Dean’s torso enough that he can wiggle free. He doesn’t even bother with a shirt, bare feet slapping on the floor as he makes his weary way to the kitchen for the last pot of coffee he’ll brew at the cabin. While the machine does its thing, Dean pokes through the fridge to see what their remaining options are for breakfast. They did a pretty good job of cleaning out the perishables, but there’s a few eggs left, some bread in the freezer, and some assorted vegetables still kicking around in the crisper, so Dean starts throwing together a scramble. He’s just popping the last of their bread into the toaster when Cas shuffles out of the bedroom in his boxers and a t-shirt. One of Dean’s t-shirts.

Well fuck.

“What time is your ride coming?” Dean asks, if nothing else so he knows how long he’s got to talk himself either into or out of what he’s been scheming on.

Cas glances at him through eyes so squinty they might as well be closed, then ignores Dean entirely in favor of the coffee maker. Dean busies himself with cooking while Cas gets caffeinated, and once he’s had a few sips apparently he feels human enough to speak.

“I have no idea,” Castiel admits. “I haven’t checked my phone in days.”

“Well Sam is coming at around noon,” Dean informs him.

“Outstanding,” Cas replies flatly. He takes the plate Dean hands him and shuffles over to the table, shoving his laptop aside so he can devour the food. It’s almost laughable, how aggressively he appreciates Dean’s cooking considering the fact that he met Dean’s first few offers to cook for him with outright refusal. Now he can’t get enough apparently.

While they’re eating, Cas has the presence of mind to plug his cell phone in and check his messages. “Gabriel says he’ll be here around one, which means he’ll actually be here closer to four.”

“Well at least you’ll get some peace and quiet after I go,” Dean says awkwardly.

“Yeah,” Cas agrees, noncommittal. Dean doesn’t know what to make of it.

Cas takes care of the breakfast dishes and Dean heads off to pack up his stuff. He does a pretty thorough comb through the master bedroom on account of how frequently he’s undressed in there recently, but other than the shirt Cas is currently wearing, he’s pretty sure everything is packed. The box of condoms Sam thought to pack for him is empty. There are three lone beers remaining. There’s barely enough food left to bother taking home, but he packs it up anyway.

It’s nearly noon by the time Dean finishes packing up and puttering, and it feels like all the nervous energy he hauled in with him is weighing him down again right now. It’s a different kind though, a different source, and at least this time it’s not something he’s actively trying to avoid. At least, not anymore.

“Hey Cas,” Dean blurts out as he sits down at the table, pulling Cas’ attention away from his laptop one more time. He does that birdlike head tilt again, regarding Dean with calculating eyes, and all at once it feels like that first time they met, when Cas measured his worth in a single glance.

“What is it, Dean?” Cas asks, maybe a little perturbed. This is a terrible idea. The worst. But he’s gonna go through with it anyway.

“So um, listen. I was thinking. ‘Cause like, we hit it off pretty well, I mean, except for the first few days when I was kinda distracting—“

“Incredibly distracting,” Cas interjects.

“Yeah, that. Anyway. We had fun, and I was thinking we could keep having fun. You know. After we go home. I don’t know exactly where home is for you, but I kinda like you and I wouldn’t hate to see you again after this.”

Cas’ eyes go wide like this is the last thing on earth he expected, and he closes his laptop slowly, calmly, and he’s full of intensity but not the kind that scared Dean before. It’s an unsettled kind, unstable, and it reminds Dean so much of that night when Cas couldn’t sleep, he has no idea what to do with it.

“Oh Dean. No. I can’t.”

“Oh,” Dean replies, crestfallen. He tries to keep it off his face, but he’s almost entirely certain he fails miserably.

“I don’t have time for that kind of thing. This book, it’s too much. I’m too busy.” With every word he speaks, Cas’ voice pitches up just a little towards panic, and it is possibly the most painful rejection Dean has ever faced. The very idea of seeing Dean outside of this little escapist fantasy is enough to panic Castiel, to send him spiralling out of control, and Dean not only feels guilty for being the cause of that, but absolutely gutted.

“Oh,” Dean says again, bordering on numb. “Okay. Sure. No worries. I understand.” His hands move almost of their own volition, picking up a pen and a notepad tucked towards the edge of the table, something the cabin’s owner pilfered from a Howard Johnson’s at some point. “Tell you what, I’ll give you my number. No pressure. But when you’re done the book, or if you want a break from it or something, just gimme a call and we can go for a beer or whatever.”

Cas takes the slip of paper, doesn’t even open it, and there’s so much going on behind his eyes. “Dean I—“

“It’s cool. No worries,” Dean interrupts him. He can’t take another word of rejection right now. “I’m just gonna go take my stuff outside. Sam’ll be here soon. You go back to your book.”

Sam doesn’t arrive for another twenty minutes, but after shuttling his bags and the remaining food out onto the veranda, Dean can’t bear to go back inside, so he sits there in the sun pretending there’s no one else in the cabin.

“How long you been sitting out here?” Sam asks when he rolls up in that plastic monstrosity.

“I dunno,” Dean mutters. He knows he’s supposed to be in a better mood now that he’s had two weeks to get his shit sorted out, but he’s pretty sour right now. He also knows he can’t really tell Sam why he’s in a shitty mood or it’s going to be the ugliest four hour car ride ever, so he does his best to play-act like a normal person. “Guess I’m just realizing I gotta go back to work now. Kinda got used to the whole relaxing thing.”

“I told you it’d be good for you,” Sam replies smugly.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “You did.”

Castiel comes outside just as they’re loading the last of the stuff into the car, wearing one of his own shirts and holding Dean’s in his hand. “You left this in the bathroom,” he lies, proffering the shirt. It’s gonna smell like Cas until he washes it. Dean’s not sure if he’s going to do laundry at the earliest opportunity, or leave it as long as possible.

“Thanks,” Dean says, for more than the shirt. Cas nods, but if he hears the hidden meaning he doesn’t acknowledge it.

“Goodbye, Dean,” he says in reply. Maybe it’s just Dean’s ears playing tricks on him, but it sounds so achingly final that he wishes Cas hadn’t come outside at all. He could have lived his entire life without hearing another goodbye with that weight of finality to it.

Cas stands in the middle of the driveway the entire time the car makes its slow climb back towards the road. Dean has his sunglasses pulled down over his eyes even though the dappled light filtering through the trees makes them unnecessary, but it means that Sam can’t tell he’s looking in the side view mirror the entire time, watching Cas fade into the distance. When they finally pull on to the main road, Dean fiddles with the stereo until he finds a preset that isn’t either NPR or NPR’s uglier country cousin, and for once, Sam doesn’t give him shit for it.


	9. Chapter 9

Within a few weeks of his escape from the cabin, Castiel has spent enough time hunched over his keyboard that the manuscript is ready to go off to his editor. It’s not perfect, and there will be red pen everywhere when it comes back for rewrites, but it’s a draft, and that’s more than he had a month ago when Gabriel shipped him off to the middle of nowhere.

The moment he submits it, Castiel feels an incredible sense of accomplishment. He did it. He actually did it. He followed up his debut series with an unrelated work that is going to be (after much editing) worthy of publication. The story is intriguing, the voice is consistent, and he’s pretty proud of the characters he’s woven into it. The fact that one of his supporting characters happens to share a lot of Dean’s views on things is totally irrelevant to that, and certainly not intentional. Nothing to do with anything.

Castiel should do something. He should go out to celebrate. This is a big deal, even if the work isn’t over yet. He should call someone up and share the good news, go out for dinner somewhere slightly nicer than the places he’s constantly ordering takeout from. Only who would he even call? His brother’s in Seoul on business, although Balthazar would make excellent company for a celebration like this. He’d probably order champagne, get Castiel drunk, and they’d end up in a karaoke bar or at a drag show or something else Castiel would never do on his own. It would be a blast. If only he was even in this hemisphere. And Gabriel would be more than happy to join him for a meal. He could expense it, even, and Gabriel likes nothing more than writing things off as business expenses. But Castiel would honestly rather step on Lego barefoot than spend time with Gabriel he didn’t have to. The man is excellent at his job, and certainly Castiel’s career has benefitted from his influence, but they are not a social match.

Castiel could call a friend. He’s got some of those…somewhere. There’s people he sends emails back and forth with on occasion, and people he engages with on social media. Only it’s been so long since he’s accepted an invitation from any of them at this point that his call to dinner would probably be met with _Castiel who?_ And that would just be embarrassing for everyone. Okay, mostly for Castiel. So that’s not going to happen.

He knows who he’d like to have dinner with. The number is saved in his phone with just a first name, and he’s never called it, but he could. He’s pretty sure he doused that bridge in kerosene before he set it on fire though, and he didn’t even bother giving Dean his number in return so it’s unlikely his attention would be welcome right now. Which is really just Castiel’s own damn fault, isn’t it? He pushed Dean to open up emotionally and not wall himself off, and then he turned around and did exactly that. He pushed Dean away, fought his feelings and pretended they didn’t matter, and now he’s alone again. Doesn’t even have his damn book to serve as a distraction anymore, because he can’t start editing until Gabriel bloodies it with the red pen. He’s exactly where Dean was before Castiel got through to him.

The irony is delicious, but he’d rather have spring rolls, so he picks up the phone and orders takeout for one as usual.

~*~

It pains Dean to admit it, but by the time his birthday rolls around in January, he’s kind of a functional human being again. He’s not drinking kale smoothies and training for a marathon like Sam, but he’s getting by. Overtime is a thing of the past except when the situation specifically calls for it, and quite honestly, it rarely calls for it. Usually if he’s there after hours, it’s the kind of thing where the whole team is pulling together to meet deadline on a big restoration, so even Sam can’t give him a hard time about it. Which he has plenty of opportunities to do, because Dean actually _sees_ Sam now. At least once a week. Sometimes they go for a beer after work on Fridays (although Sam is drinking that weird low-carb beer, and pretending like it doesn’t taste like sadness), or occasionally Dean will cook dinner and they’ll hang out and watch a movie, but the important thing is they spend time together. Like family. Family who talks about things.

That’s the biggest change. Dean’s actually talking about things. Not like, extensively. And Sam still has to pry a bit to get Dean to open up. But it’s better than the Fort Knox imitation he was pulling this time last year, so Dean calls that a win. Or something. He’s not bottling things up so tight they’re likely to go Molotov anymore, so it’s whatever.

He’s got to hand it to Sam though. They don’t see eye to eye on a fairly long list of things, but Sam’s been completely judgement free as Dean works through his shit. Even when Dean admitted that the entire breakup with Lisa was his fault, he braced for an I-told-you-so that never came and found himself pleasantly surprised. Instead, Sam was all _it takes two_ and _that really had to hurt_ and other such brotherly classics, and it kinda made Dean wish he’d said something sooner.

Almost.

Anyway, on Dean’s birthday he goes out for drinks with Sam and Benny and Ash and Garth and Charlie, not even stopping at home on the way. He brought a change of clothes to the shop with him, changed in the bathroom and did a reasonable job of cleaning himself up. It’s not like he’s trying to land a date or anything, but he is kinda getting to that place where he’d be into that if the right person sauntered by, so yeah, whatever. He looks good.

Charlie buys him a shot of Fireball because she’s an asshole. He plays pool against Ash (not for money, because he isn’t an idiot), shoots the shit with Benny, and because he’s nice, doesn’t even complain when Garth bear-hugs him at the end of the night. It’s a much better birthday than he had last year, just a week or so post-Lisa, and it’s kinda great.

“You seem good,” Sam says as they walk back to his weird hybrid car. It’s almost like he’s surprised.

“I am,” Dean tells him, and he kinda means it.

“Forgiven me for shipping you off to the cabin in the middle of nowhere yet?” Sam teases, an earnest grin on his face. Dean kinda wants to ruffle his hair, but he’s not five anymore, and he’s got a good couple inches on Dean, so he lets it slide.

“Almost,” Dean admits slowly. He suddenly wishes he was back at that cabin, actually, but not for the lake or the quiet or the barbeque. He misses a certain blue-eyed writer with a penchant for weed and an inability to feed himself. He wishes he was still at the cabin, because then he’d still be hanging out with Cas. Which is _stupid_ , because that was six months ago and they knew each other for like, fourteen days, and Dean is so beyond that. He is. This is just a momentary lapse. Alcohol is making him nostalgic, that’s all. “Take me through the McDonalds drive-thru on the way home and we’ll call it square. McNuggets fix, like, everything.” He should also probably eat something if he’s going to avoid a hangover in the morning, what with the fact that he’s old now. Birthdays sure do have a way of sneaking up on a guy.

It’s a testament to what a good brother Sam is that he lets processed chicken by-product anywhere near his car. He informs Dean of this three times on the way to the drive-thru and then again when he drops Dean off. It’s very important to him.

Dean does avoid a hangover the next morning, but he spends Saturday in bed anyway because it’s his birthday weekend and he can do whatever the hell he wants. Of course he’s got to get out of bed to feed himself at some point, but then he retreats to the couch with bacon and eggs and spends the afternoon curled up reading under a blanket.

Nobody has to know that he’s reading James Novak’s novels because he’s got feelings or anything like that. Nobody even knows he’s met James Novak. Cas was right though; his books are weird as fuck. Like reading a David Lynch movie, except without the strange visual cues and neon signs in the background of half the shots. If he’d actually bothered to get Cas’ number, if Cas had offered it, he’d call him up and tell him that he has nothing to worry about, that his books are good, that he’s not some pedantic hack that needs to find a day job. And he’d tell him he was an idiot for not giving Dean a chance to make him happy, because Dean’s really working on the shit that made him not good in a relationship, and if he’s gonna be good to anyone he’d really like it to be Cas. Except if he had Cas’ number then that’d mean Cas was giving him a chance, so Dean wouldn’t have anything to call him an idiot for.

Whatever. Dean knows what he means. And none of that matters, because Cas didn’t give Dean his number, so he can’t call him regardless.

Feelings are dumb anyway.

~*~

Dean stops at the supermarket on the way home from work on Monday, picks himself up some ground beef so he can make those burgers he’s so good at making. He’ll cook enough for tonight’s dinner and freeze the rest of the patties, and then next time he wants a burger he can just pull one out. He’s getting better at cooking for one, portioning things so he doesn’t waste food, batch cooking some stuff and freezing it. He’s assembled the Ikea bookshelf, unpacked his books, decorated a little, made his little apartment a home. He’s even got an indoor grill now, though it’s not as good as a proper full sized one, but it’s still a grill. It feels like he lives here now instead of just passing through.

On the way up, he stops to check his mail. A couple bills, something for the last guy who lives here (he leaves that on top of the mailboxes), flyers, and a small parcel, definitely addressed to Dean. Which is weird, because he does not remember ordering anything online. He tucks the parcel in with his groceries and heads upstairs, where he promptly forgets to open it in favour puttering around the kitchen and then collapsing on the couch with a beer. It’s not until four episodes of Brooklyn 99 later that he remembers it’s there.

Dean’s barely curious as he tears into the packaging. It’s about the right shape and size for a book, but Dean doesn’t buy books through the mail, so he can’t see why it would be. It’s probably some kind of scam. Dean doesn’t know of any scams that involve sending people books they didn’t ask for, but it’s gotta be something like that. Probably.

The wrappings fall to the floor at Dean’s feet, already forgotten as he turns the book over in his hands. It’s a hardcover, shiny dustjacket emblazoned with a name he’s quite familiar with, though he didn’t think he’d actually end up staring at again so soon. He knows this book isn’t set to be released for another month or so (just came across it in passing, not like he was looking into it or anything), but he’s got his hands on a copy, probably one the author got for review or something. He doesn’t know for sure. What he does know is that Castiel James Novak managed to find his address somehow, and he’s holding the book that landed him in that stupid cabin in the first place.

Dean wasn’t even going to buy this one when he came out. He wasn’t. He didn’t need to. He only read Cas’ earlier books to see whether he was just being his own worst critic or if they were actually crappy and weird, and that’s that. But now it’s here, and he’s all kind of mixed up about it. Why would Cas even bother? He’s had Dean’s number all this time and he never once picked up the phone. Why would he send Dean a book?

Dean has no intention of reading it right now. Eventually, sure, but right now he’s got burgers to make and beer to drink. For some reason though, he can’t quite make himself put it down right yet. He reads the summary on the back, an actual story summary instead of just critical acclaim like some books have these days, and by the time he gets to the end Dean has to acknowledge that he still has next to no idea what the book is about. But he opens it up, not sure why since he’s not about to start reading it, and on the flyleaf there’s an inscription, written by someone who holds their pen too tight and presses too hard, almost tearing through the page in places.

_I should have called. I should have taken you up on your offer for a beer. I should have given you my number in return. I shouldn’t have run away. I should have done a lot of things differently, but I didn’t, and those are my burdens to bear. If you’re willing though, if you’ll let me, I’d like to apologize properly, in person. I realize it doesn’t fix anything, but I owe you at least that much. I owe you more than that; far more than I can fit on this page. Please call me, if you’re willing._

It’s unsigned, but Dean doesn’t need a name. There is a phone number though, scrawled messily almost as an afterthought, like Cas poured his heart out and almost forgot to include the most important thing. Dean breathes out slowly and carefully, his body thrumming with excitement at realizing what he holds in his hands. Setting the book down on his counter, Dean reaches into his pocket for his phone, dialing the number quickly. It rings once, twice, and then the line clicks over and a harsh, gruff voice he’d know anywhere speaks.

“Hello?” says Castiel, like he wasn’t expecting the phone to ring at all.

“Heya Cas,” Dean replies, trying to be cool.

“Dean? Is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Got your book.”

Cas laughs. “Apparently. Dean, I’m so sorry. I’m such an idiot, I never should have let you leave like that.” He sighs. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“I’m callin’, ain’t I? But you said something about apologising in person, so…”

“If you’ll see me, then yeah. Yeah I want that. Can we do dinner?”

Dean shrugs, forgetting Cas can’t see him through the phone. “Name the time and place, and I’m there. You got a favourite restaurant? Shit, I don’t actually know where you live, are we even in the same state?”

“We are,” Cas tells him. “Opposite ends of the city, but yeah, not exactly a road trip apart. And actually, I was thinking, I could make you dinner?”

Now it’s Dean’s turn to laugh. “Is this an apology, or a punishment?”

“I’ve been taking classes,” Cas says softly. “I remembered what you said about it not being too late to learn.”

“This I gotta see,” Dean replies.

“What are you doing tonight?” Cas asks. Dean looks around his kitchen at the groceries, which he still hasn’t put away. He starts shovelling things into the fridge.

“Nothing important. Send me your address?”

~*~

And that’s how Dean finds himself in the elevator of Cas’ building, riding up to the 12th floor with anticipation buzzing under his skin. He’s not nervous, not particularly, but he is excited and a little bit unsure what to expect, and that’s a very similar feeling to nervousness. He’s got a six-pack of beer in hand because he knows better than to show up empty handed when someone is feeding him, and he’s wearing his best jeans and a burgundy button-down that always manages to make him look far more dressed up than he feels. Certainly far more dressed up than Cas has ever seen him, considering they’ve only ever been in the same room when on vacation in a cabin.

Cas opens the door looking just about as unsure as Dean feels, his grin spreading broad and then faltering out of embarrassment. He steps aside to let Dean in, putting the beer in the fridge and offering him a glass of whiskey while the beer chills. Dean thinks about his car parked in the visitor stalls downstairs, about how he’s totally not going to be able to drive it home if he starts in on the whiskey, and decides to hell with it. He’ll pay for a crosstown cab if he has to, but if he’s honest he’s holding out a hope that it means he’ll just end up spending the night.

“I’m glad you came,” Cas says warmly, smiling at Dean as he stirs something on the stove. “I’m kind of an idiot, if you haven’t noticed, and I’m so glad I didn’t fuck up so badly that you don’t even want to talk to me.”

And here’s where all the growth Dean’s been doing has a chance to shine. A year ago, hell, six months ago when he first met Cas, he would have bottled up anything remotely approaching an emotion on the subject and just said something along the lines of _it’s cool._ But not now, not anymore. Or at least, not usually. “It…I’m not gonna lie, it hurt. I mean, I realize we didn’t actually talk about seeing each other after and I didn’t have any right to expect anything more from you, but I thought we were on the same page and it was not a good feeling to be proven wrong. But you didn’t owe me, and if I read it wrong that’s on me, not you.”

Cas is silent for a moment, engrossed in what he’s cooking. Dean wants to ask what he’s making, wants to know what he’s learned about cooking since they last spoke, but the silence feels like the kind he’s not supposed to interrupt.

“You didn’t read it wrong,” he says finally. “I wanted…whatever it was you were asking for. A beer. A date. A relationship. Any of it. All of it. But that would have involved letting you in, and when I let people in I get hurt. So I ran away before that could happen.”

“I have no intention of hurting you,” Dean says, knowing full well that Cas is already aware of that. It seems like the thing to say, though.

“I know,” Cas confirms. “But _that’s on me, not on you_ , just like you said. It was never about whether you were bad for me, it was about me being too fucked up to know the difference. And I realize that now, which is why I found you, which is why I sent you the book. I don’t know if the offer is still on the table but I want to see you again. In the real world.”

“I get that,” Dean replies. “Everybody has issues. You kinda helped me figure mine out.”

“And remained completely oblivious to my own in the process.”

“Yeah, well we’re all stupid sometimes,” Dean laughs. “But you got me here now, so that’s not nothing.” Cas smiles at him, a little bit of a blush peeking out from behind the stubble on his cheeks. Dean likes it there.

“I’m making enchiladas,” Cas says instead of responding to Dean’s comment. It kinda feels resolved now, with everything out in the open, though Dean knows that’s not the end of the conversation. It’s just the end of this stage.

“I’m impressed.”

“You’re also right. It’s not that hard, and I just needed someone to show me what to do. I mean, I definitely still order takeout a fair bit, but not because I don’t have any other options now. It’s just cause I’m lazy.”

“I can get down with lazy,” Dean replies, amused. “Convenient that you were un-lazy the day I got your book though.”

“Oh no, I had fully planned on ordering takeout tonight. I changed my plans when you called.”

“Lucky me,” Dean grins from behind his whiskey. Cas grins back. It’s odd to see him in a kitchen without flames or smoke or the charred remains of a pizza, but Dean likes it. There’s something really comforting about having someone cook for you, and he kinda gets the feeling he’s the first person Cas has ever cooked for.

Lucky Dean indeed.

~*~

For someone who couldn’t even reheat a burrito six months ago, Cas makes a pretty damned good enchilada. He brushes off all complements on the subject, stating that all he did was follow the recipe, and Dean resists the urge to tell him that’s all he had to do to not fuck up the lasagna back at the cabin because they’re playing nice now. But he definitely thinks it.

And they’re hanging out after dinner, drinking the beer Dean brought and being kinda flirtatious and getting along just like the past 6 months hadn’t happened, and then Cas gets kinda quiet. Dean notices, tries not to get weirded out. Has he overstayed his welcome? Has Cas decided he actually doesn’t want Dean around after all? Is it about to get weird?

He’s about to ask, when Cas sets his drink down on the coffee table and leans a little bit into Dean’s space. “Can I kiss you?” he asks softly, none of the pushiness of their earlier encounters in his words or his demeanor.

“Yeah,” Dean replies hoarsely, licking his lips. Cas leans in further, slowly, pressing his mouth to Dean’s oh so softly. It’s gentle, not demanding, not insistent, but Dean melts into the kiss all the same. He savours it for as long as Cas sees fit to let him, slightly embarrassed at the sigh that drifts from his lips when Cas backs away to look at him through heavy-lidded eyes.

“Can I kiss you again?” Cas asks now, his voice immeasurably deeper since he last spoke, the lust clear in his blown pupils, the flush on his cheeks, the red wetness of his mouth.

“You can kiss me,” Dean replies. “You can touch me. Wherever you’re wanting to take this, we can go there.” He’s not about to play coy, not now. He wants Cas, and if he was angry about the way they parted before, it isn’t enough to make him deny himself this.

“Oh, Dean,” Cas whispers with wonder in his voice. He tugs on Dean’s arm to get him moving and guides him to straddle Cas’ lap, and then the kissing starts again. It begins slow and gentle, like that first kiss, soft and sweet and tender, but it doesn’t last. Dean’s not really sure who directs the shift, him or Cas, but it doesn’t take long before they’re making out hot and heavy, kisses wet and messy, and Dean can feel Cas getting hard inside his jeans pressed right up against Dean’s own hardness.

“Can I touch you?” Cas asks, even though Dean already gave him permission.

“Cas, you can touch me,” Dean replies, groaning as Cas mouths at his throat. “You fucked me a bunch of times back in the cabin. You blew me on the deck to distract me from shit.  Touching me is kind of a step back from any of that.”

“That was different,” Cas asserts, but he reaches around to grab Dean’s ass anyway. “That was vacation sex. We were strangers then. This means something now.”

“Well then keep asking if you gotta, but the answer is gonna keep being yes.” Dean kisses Cas again before he can respond further. Cas’ hands on his hips urge him to grind their erections together, and soon they’re moaning into each other’s mouths, rocking and kissing. Cas’ hands eventually move back around to grip the waistband of Dean’s jeans. He doesn’t ask, but he does stop kissing to look Dean in the eye, and he waits for Dean’s breathless approval before moving forward. He pops open the button, drags down the zipper, and lets out a soft gasp at the scrap of pink that peeks out from inside Dean’s jeans.

“Oh wow,” Cas breathes, running the tip of one finger along the waistband of Dean’s panties. “Was not expecting that.”

“Uh, well,” Dean replies, suddenly ashamed. “I told you about the panties at the cabin and you seemed kinda, I don’t know. I guess it was silly to think you’d remember.”

Cas laughs, a dark thing that sends shivers up Dean’s spine. “Oh, I remember,” he assures Dean, kissing his mouth, his cheek, his throat. “I just didn’t expect you to show me, not after I blew you off like that.” The tip of Cas’ finger teases close to the head of Dean’s dick, barely contained in the pink satin, but he doesn’t touch yet. “It’s a very pleasant surprise. Take your jeans off so I can see you properly?”

Dean stands up awkwardly, barely meeting Cas’ eyes. He pushes his jeans down his thighs slowly, not really teasing just trying not to look over-enthusiastic, and crouches down to remove his socks along with them. When he stands back up, Cas is staring at him in wide-eyed adoration.

“Your shirt?” Cas inquires, licking his lips.

“You do it,” Dean replies, challenging. Cas is on him in an instant, springing from the couch to work open all the buttons down the front, push the shirt from his shoulders, and peel off the t-shirt underneath. Dean feels naked, exposed, but he kinda likes it. With all Dean’s clothing piled on the floor, Cas steps back to take a long look at him, licking his lips hungrily as his eyes rake over Dean’s body.

“You’re stunning,” Cas breathes. “Just look at you.” Dean adjusts himself inside the panties, his hard cock straining at the fabric, but it just makes Cas stare at him more hungrily.

“I’d rather look at you,” Dean replies, deflecting, reaching out for the hem of Cas’ shirt. Cas does it for him, stripping the t-shirt off to reveal his solid chest, muscles Dean wants to get his hands all over. The buckle on his belt presses cold against Dean’s skin when they come together again, hands roaming everywhere. Dean hisses, but the metal warms quickly from his body heat, and Cas gives him other things to think about anyway. Like the firm hands gripping his ass, sliding under the fabric of his panties like a promise of all the things he’s gonna do later. Like the slow but unmistakeable way Cas is backing him out of the living room and towards the bedroom. Like the hard line of Cas’ own dick tenting his jeans and rubbing against Dean’s thigh. Dean lets himself be guided, because the bed is where he wants this to end up, because he wants Cas in him, wants Cas to make him feel good, wants to make Cas feel good too.

“I missed you,” Cas whispers, guiding Dean down onto the bed. “You’re just so…god I’m lucky.”

“Yeah, me too,” Dean replies, not sure which statement he’s agreeing with, but it doesn’t matter. Cas drops his jeans in short order and his boxers along with them, and then he’s climbing onto the bed to settle between Dean’s thighs. He palms at Dean’s dick, grinning at the way Dean arches off the bed at the first touch, and everything after that just melts into a haze of pleasure. He seems to revel in teasing Dean, in giving him just enough to rile him up but not enough to make him fall apart. His lips find Dean’s nipple but his hand falls away from Dean’s cock. He grinds his hip against Dean’s crotch but doesn’t kiss him. Never quite what Dean is after but always enough to keep him interested. It’s maddening. It’s torturous. He loves it.

Finally, after a long while, Cas leans over to his bedside table to grab lube and a fresh box of condoms. Dean raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t want to assume,” Cas tells him, “but if I _didn’t_ buy any and you did show up here wanting to sleep with me, we’d both have been disappointed.”

“I ain’t complaining,” Dean laughs, going along easily as Cas guides his legs further apart. The first slick touch to his entrance has him clutching at the sheets and groaning softly. Cas is gentle and careful, but there’s a neediness to the way he moves, not taking longer than necessary. He opens Dean up quite thoroughly, but he doesn’t waste any time getting there. Finally, when Dean is writhing and moaning on the bed, Cas sheathes himself in a condom, and instead of pulling Dean’s panties off, just pushes them out of the way and sinks in.

The slide of satin across his cock as Cas fucks into him is like nothing else. It’s soft and decadent and kinda filthy, and it’s not long before the front of the panties are soaked with pre-come. Cas drapes his body over Dean’s, presses their mouths together and devours Dean’s moans, and doesn’t let up for a second. Before Dean knows it, his orgasm is looming, and he’s close enough to the edge that it won’t take much to push him over.

“You’re beautiful,” Cas says between kisses. He slides a hand between their bodies, still bracing himself on the other arm, and strokes Dean through the satin of his panties. Just a few rough touches are enough to have him coming with a shout, spilling out between them as his body tenses and his vision whites out. Cas slows down to avoid overwhelming him, but it’s clear that he’s close too, taking almost as much enjoyment out of Dean’s orgasm as Dean does. When Cas comes, he’s quiet, but Dean can feel it in the way his muscles lock, in the way he kisses Dean with bruising passion. Even after he comes they rock together slowly for a few moments, savouring the sensation. Cas collapses to the bed beside Dean, but he doesn’t go any further than that. He tosses the condom in a wastebasket beside his bedside table, then wraps his arms around Dean.

“Hi,” Dean says sleepily with a grin on his face, still flushed and sweaty.

“Hi,” Cas replies, pressing a soft kiss to the sweaty skin of Dean’s shoulder. “So, um, are you staying the night then?”

“Is this you inviting me?” Dean asks carefully.

“Well, I mean. If you want to. I’d like that.”

“Okay,” Dean replies, relieved that he doesn’t have to cab home and come back for his car, but also pretty damned pleased about not having to leave this bed. He’s done a lot of one night stands in his day, but he always prefers to stick around after sex if he’s with someone that wants him to. Especially if that someone is as gorgeous and interesting as Castiel.

“Oh good. Then you can make me breakfast in the morning,” Cas says with a pleased hum.

“I thought you could cook now,” Dean teases.

“I can. But I like it better when you cook for me,” Cas replies, snuggling in closer. Dean doesn’t argue. He doesn’t mind cooking for Cas, and besides, it seems like they’ll be spending more than a little bit of time together in the next while. He’s sure Cas will get the chance to return the favour.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cabin Fever](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12790797) by [delicirony (deliciousirony)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliciousirony/pseuds/delicirony)




End file.
